The defection of Chiang Kwei-lin, 28-year-old former staff member of the New China News Agency in Cairo and Sung Ta-lou, 30-year-old commissar in a Red army unit, was officially announced last April in Taipei. At a press conference the two men renounced their Communist membership and vowed to fight for the downfall of Communism. In doing so they delivered a message for the whole world to hear: Communism is not the "wave of future."
NCNA Trainee
The story of Chiang Kwei-lin goes back to the September of 1945. News of the Japanese surrender spread like prairie fire in Manchuria. The jubilant people, after 15 years of alien rule, waited impatiently for the arrival of the government troops who were then being shipped northward. But in the northern half of Manchuria the people never had the opportunity to see the" national flag of white and blue. Under the protection of Russian tanks the Chinese Communist hordes poured in by hundreds of thousands.
The people were somewhat disappointed to see these non-descript troops who called themselves "people's liberation army." Nonetheless, they drew some consolation from the fact that these beggar-like soldiers were after all Chinese. But Chiang Kwei-lin, son of a poor postal clerk in a rural village, did not feel any disappointment at all. Born after the Japanese occupation began, he had never tasted much of freedom not the" amenities of a good life. Therefore, he sang and danced as every other urchin in the village did when the Communist soldiers arrived.
One day a friendly-looking Communist officer arrived at Chiang's village. With a broad smile on his face, he told the boys he was a worker of the New China News Agency stationed in Harbin. Would the kids like to have a few days' visit in the city as guests of his agency? He asked. Chiang, who had never seen what a big city looks like, jumped at the invitation. So did many other boys in the village school.
The visit lengthened from days to weeks and then to months. They had become trainees of the New China News Agency's radio school in Harbin. Under the iron discipline of a veteran Communist director the boys started learning the ABCs of the numerous Communist ISMs alongside technical courses and the English language. "The party is on its way to success. The future is yours if you work really hard," the director told them.
The rigorous training went on for 18 months. The youngsters were then assigned to the various Communist units for on the job training. In the next few years Chiang drifted with the Red army over the greater part of the mainland. He saw much of the "human wave" tactics on the front and the sufferings of the people in the rural areas. But he was not moved. This, he had been told, was all part of the price the people had to pay for the "happy days" ahead.
Chiang Kwei-lin (File photo)
War Correspondent
In October 1950, Chiang received official assignment as a war correspondent to cover the Korean War. The assignment brought him a promotion to Grade-9 in the New China News Agency's 30-grade echelon. He crossed the Yalu River with some 50 fellow newsmen of the agency. The task was full of peril because of the intensive fire of the United Nations forces. For most of the time the Red correspondents had to work in caves. Even so, half of them were dead when the Panmunjom truce talks began two and a half years later.
Aside from the physical danger and hardships, the reportorial assignment was comparatively easy. Since there was no scoop in the Communist journalism, nobody needed to fight for news. All the NCNA correspondents had to do was to report Communist "victories" and allied "atrocities", the more exaggerated the better. Yet it was this very working formula which often caused them embarrassment and made them feel guilty.
Reminiscing his work in Korea, Chiang said, "I dared not look straight into the eyes of the wounded soldiers I interviewed in the hospitals.
"Looking reproachfully at me, they would say: 'We have been fed up with the stories you guys wrote. You say the Americans can be easily licked. How come we are here? Can you tell us what has gone wrong?' It was this kind of situation I dreaded most."
A few NCNA correspondents who had their early training in the free press did try hard to tell the truth, Chiang remembered. They did it in such a roundabout way that only the most careful reader could detect the hidden truth between the lines. Such transgressions were inevitably found out and the offending newsmen punished. One of those purged for enterprising reporting was Li Li, who was deported to a concentration camp in Sinkiang for "reform through labor." He was labeled a "romantic hoodlum."
The collection of "evidence" against him was a classical example of the Communist frame-up. One night his newly-wed wife called him from the bath tub. She had forgotten to bring the clean clothes for change. Would he mind bringing the clothes to her? Without entering the bathroom, he thrusted the clothes through a window. He was gripped from inside the bathroom. Out stepped a burly man in uniform. "So, you are a peeping tom," the man grinned in an ugly mood. Li learned later the man was a secret police.
Unhappy Home Leave
Chiang's assignment in Korea terminated with the signing of the truce agreement in the summer of 1953. He had done well in the Korean War, his boss told him. As a reward, he was given a week-long home leave, the first one he had got since he left home nine years ago. That was also his last home leave. This "special favor" he received served as an eye opener to him as he traveled in the vastly changed countryside on his way home.
"As I approached my village, I was struck by the strange silence gripping the surroundings. It was as if a deadly epidemic had just visited the place," Chiang recalled. "There were no dogs barking at me. Nor could I see the chicks and ducks which used to adorn the village fringe. Life had completely gone out of this once prosperous village."
"In the village I saw nobody smiling. Dressed in tatters, the people went about their business grim-faced. Unable to recognize me, they shunned me as if I carried plague. Mother greeted my return with sobs. She threw herself into my arms without saying a word. My father, who had robust health when I left home, was stooped. His hair had turned completely gray. He showed no cheerfulness at seeing me again after such a long separation. They showed me around the old brick house. I could see they had not bought a single piece of furniture in all these years. I went upstairs where we used to store the grains and other farm products. It was empty now. The old cow had also disappeared from the animal shed back of the house. 'The people's government has taken them away,' father said in bitterness.
"I began wondering: Was all this I was supposed to work for? Although my parents did not utter a word to show their displeasure at my becoming a Communist, I could not fail to detect their disappointment in me. So I left them before my seven-day leave expired."
Self-Criticism
Back in Peiping again, Chiang was promoted to Grade-10. He was given the new work as a radio room worker. He had time to attend an extension school in after office hours. Through diligent study he learned much about China's history and scored substantial progress in the Chinese language. The widening of his knowledge and improvement of skill in writing enabled him to get the job of a proofreader in 1956. The assignment was far more important than it suggests, because the proofreader in the Communist journalistic system has the authority to cut and even to withhold altogether a report filed in. Therefore, the new assignment reflected the party's increased trust in the young man.
The "let a hundred flowers bloom and a hundred schools of thought contend" movement in 1957 exacted a heavy toll not only among the liberals but among the staff members of NCNA as well. Chiang saved his neck only because he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut.
But that does not mean he had no trouble at all. Although he said nothing against the regime, he failed to attack those who did. Some one reported his silence to the agency director, accusing Chiang of being a "suspected rightist." One day, Chiang was called upon to explain his reticence in a self-examination article entitled "What is my attitude toward the rightists?"
He spent two agonizing nights in sweating out the article, on which hung so much of his fate. He took great pains to recount his proletariat background and his undying loyalty to the party. He was 100 per cent against the rightists, he emphasized. The argument was simple but convincing. "The rightists are against the party, of which I am a faithful member. Therefore, they are against me personally," he said. The article restored the party's confidence in him. He was not only cleared but also received a pay raise.
Overseas Assignment
The rumblings of Nasser's anti-West campaign in 1958 caught the ever attentive ear of the Peiping regime. Mao Tse-tung decided to fish in the troubled water of the Middle East. The scheme called for the strengthening of NCNA's Cairo Bureau as a base of cultural penetration. Chiang Kwei-lin, the trusted Communist cadre, was one of the five NCNA men sent to the United Arab Republic. Prior to his departure he was elevated to Grade-II drawing a regal overseas pay of US$90 a month. For the first time he was outfitted like a capitalist, complete with coats, shirts, ties and what-not. As a representative of the "people's republic", he should not appear in his usual amorphous uniform in a non-Communist country.
Chiang arrived in Cairo on an August day after a long flight via Moscow. His immediate task was to set up the bureau's first wireless transmission and receiving station. He was also to install a frequency shifter for the Cairo telecommunications office. The machine was a gift from Peiping presented with the objective of securing the cooperation of the UAR government.
The frequency shifter, which Peiping claimed was made in the "people's republic of China", was actually assembled out of old spare parts made in the United States. It had the high-sounding brand name of "Yi Pin", literally meaning "first class". Before the machine arrived in Cairo, Chiang called on the Egyptian director of the communications office and described to him the "superiority" of the shifter.
Chiang was to feel greatly embarrassed for what he had told to the Egyptian official. The machine was to be installed immediately after its arrival. To his dismay, he found it was not in a working condition. Yen Piao, the chief of the NCNA bureau, saved the situation by lying. He told the Cairo communications office that the machine required minute examination and requested the transfer be postponed for one month. At the same time, he cabled an urgent message to Peiping, asking for the dispatch of a technician to fix it. The postponement was granted, and the "face" was saved. But Chiang never felt the same about his party again.
Recall for “Reform"
The material life of the Communist workers abroad was way above that of their comrades at home. But working in a non-Communist country called for stricter watch over their movements. Chiang felt the restriction acutely when he was given the additional work as a photographer and reporter. Meeting the Western newsmen for the first time in his life, he was impressed by the scope of their freedom and the quality of their work. He longed secretly for the same kind of freedom.
But it was daydreaming. As an NCNA correspondent, Chiang could cover only what the bureau chief told him to and write what the chief prescribed beforehand. In the face of sharp competition with the Western pressmen and the fast break of events, this was more than Chiang could stand. He made a few cautious moves to break the NCNA rules. For this boldness, he was soundly admonished by the bureau chief. Of course, Chiang's reports never had the chance to see light.
Discouraged by the treatment, Chiang began balking at reportorial assignments under one excuse or another. This was tantamount to rebellion. He was charged with "possessing rightist thinking" and subjected to the humiliations of three self-examination sessions. This time, however, he was not eager to regain the party's confidence now that his faith in Communism had completely shaken. He offered only lame excuses and made half-hearted defenses. As a result, the bureau chief reported his conducts to Peiping together with the recommendation that Chiang be recalled for "reform."
Somehow, Chiang learned of the secret report. He decided to defect, even at the risk of life. For he know what was in store for him back on the mainland. He received the transfer order in mid-October of 1959. The bureau chief ordered him to make preparations for handing over his duties to a successor who was leaving Peiping.
Faked Sickness
Chiang had been in poor health for some time. After receiving the recall order, he feigned grave illness. He remained in bed all day, declining to eat most of the time. At times, he appeared delirious. Even the doctor from the Chinese Communist "embassy" was led to believe the seriousness of his condition. So, the Communist surveillance became imperceptibly relaxed.
One day in December the outbreak of dawn was preceded by a heavy storm. Chiang woke up to find nobody watching beside him. He looked at his watch. It was not yet six o'clock. All was quiet in the bureau building, which also doubled as a dormitory of the staff. Apparently, his fellow workers were still in their dreams. This was chance of a life time. The planned defection had to be carried out now or never. Having hastily dressed up, he stuffed into his pocket 100 Egyptian pounds, a driver's license and a few other papers from his office. He tiptoed downstairs, holding his breath. He encountered no one. At the door he saw the Egyptian police guard. Luckily, he was in a drowsy mood. Thinking Chiang was going out to buy bread for his breakfast, the policeman did not say anything.
Political Asylum
The fugitive quickened his pace and hailed a taxi at a safe distance away from the bureau building. He told the taxi driver to drive him to the Indian embassy in the suburbs. Arriving there half an hour later, he immediately demanded to see Ambassador Nehru. The interview was granted after some wrangling with the embassy secretary. The ambassador listened to Chiang's request for political asylum with politeness. But his answer was nearly a refusal.
"Personally, I am sympathetic with you," Ambassador Nehru began. "But my country has friendly relations with your government. Therefore, your request places us in an embarrassing position. Besides, I doubt we can do much for you here."
Perceiving that Chiang was feeling disappointed, he added soothingly, "I am a personal friend of your ambassador. If you are willing to return to your post, I will persuade him not to punish you ... "
Chiang felt a sudden surge of anger and rose abruptly. He was about to leave when he saw standing outside the ambassador's office two officials from the Chinese Communist "embassy." Taking his seat again, he said to the ambassador:
"I am now on Indian territory, you must guarantee my safety." "Rest assured, young man," Ambassador Nehru replied. "Nobody will touch you here. Since you are determined to turn your back to your own country, I will telephone the immigration office of the United Arab Republic and see what they can do for you."
The two Communist officials waiting outside stepped forward to meet him as Chiang stepped out. "Don't be foolish, Comrade Chiang," they said. "If you return to the 'embrace of the people', we can assure you Ambassador Chen (Chia-kang) will initiate no action against you."
Chiang looked at the ceiling, leaving the two Communist cadres displaying their eloquence in persuasion. It was nearly half an hour when they were stopped by the horn of a police van from the UAR immigration office. He boarded the police van immediately. The two Communists were left behind, gesticulating at each other.
Freedom Regained
The immigration official on duty told Chiang his government had decided in principle to grant him political asylum. But he would have to accept the inconvenience of detention so that the UAR government could have time to check the authenticity of his story. As a parting shot, the official added: "Or you may return to your embassy."
Chiang was whisked off to a detention camp 50 miles away from Cairo. The detention continued for eight long months, during which nobody interrogated him. Fortunately, he made friend with a young prison officer and could procure some amenities of life with the money he had with him. Fearing that the UAR government had forgotten all about him, Chiang asked the officer to mail three letters for him—-one addressed to the UAR immigration chief, one to the International Red Cross and the other to the Cairo office of the United Nations Refugee High Commissioner.
The letters produced the desired effects. In August 1960, Chiang was brought to the presence of the warden of the detention camp. A Pakistani major from the refugee organization and a Red Cross representative were also there. After some consultations among themselves, they decided to send Chiang to the refugee office at Beirut for a two-month recuperation pending his choice for a future.
Armed with the papers furnished by the refugee organization, Chiang departed for Lebanon by air. Due to a mix-up of plane schedule, he was arrested by the Lebanese authorities for illegal entry shortly after his arrival. On his release from jail one, and a half months later, he was introduced to an official of the Chinese Embassy in Beirut. Through him, Chiang met Ambassador Kiding Wang. The ambassador did not recommend him to go to Taiwan but promised to give him help no matter what he chose to do in the future.
For several months Chiang stayed in the YMCA in Beirut but went to the Chinese Embassy quite often. Through reading and contacts with the embassy officials he learned for the first time the true picture of free China. Last January, he told Ambassador Wang that he had made up his mind to go to Taiwan. His wish was realized a few days afterwards. Now he has found employment with a radio broadcasting station in Taipei, which promises to give him ample chance to fight Communism in the field he excels.
Sung Ta-lou (File photo)
Verdict Against Communism
Sung Ta-lou is a typical peasant's son from Hunan. He is of medium build and wears an honest expression on his sun-tanned face. Despite years of intensive Communist indoctrination and training in propaganda-making, he remains a straight forward man of the farms. He is not much given to talk and is less than eloquent when he talks. But the fact that he, a Communist commissar, defected to the camp of freedom is a strong verdict against Communism, a verdict which no amount of eloquence could pronounce so effectively.
He was an illiterate farmer of 18 when he joined the Red army in 1949. He thought he did the right thing. The "people's liberation army" had often claimed to be the friends of poor people like himself, and he was ready to believe it. He had many narrow escapes during the countless battles he fought as an insignificant part of the infamous "human wave" tactics. He was a diligent student at the indoctrination classes. The Communists did not fail to recognize the qualities of this young peasant. They promoted him to be a squad leader, then a platoon sergeant and later on platoon leader. Finally, he became a commissar of an artillery.
But the good Communist remembered what he saw and knew how to think. And he had seen too much misery of the people which could not be explained away by dialectics.
"My father was overjoyed when the Communists gave him a small plot of land taken away from the landlords. My heart ached several years later when he tearfully handed the land back to the cooperative together with what little we originally had."
"But that was not the principal reason which caused me to doubt the justice of Communism. I saw with my own eyes many poor farmers like my father executed by the Communists for clinging tenaciously to their little possessions," Sung continued.
He said anti-Communist sentiments on the mainland are equally strong among the civilians and the military. He estimated at least 70 per cent of the main land population would rise up against the Communist oppressors in case of a counter-attack launched from Taiwan. "I do not exaggerate the situation," he explained, "because I have been a farmer and a political commissar. I ought to know the feelings of the common people and the soldiers."
Sung said he had decided to escape long ago but did not have the chance until his unit moved to the Yunnan border across Laos. Desertion in the area was common. Over 4,000 people out of a total population of 10,000 in two border towns escaped to Laos in less than two years, he reported. Defections in the military units also showed increase. In Sung's own unit one company commander and a platoon leader went over the border. One soldier was overtaken and killed as he tried to get away. He himself made the dash to freedom on the night of last October 30 and reached the free area in Laos in February this year. He arrived in Taiwan soon afterwards with the help of the Free China Relief Association.