From this nerveless, forsaken Korean land I rode down upon the sandy
islands of the Yalu. For weeks these islands had been the dread
between-the-lines of two fighting armies. The air above had been
rent by screaming projectiles. The echoes of the final battle had
scarcely died away. The trains of Japanese wounded and Japanese dead
were trailing by.
On the conical hill, a quarter of a mile away, the Russian dead were
being buried in their trenches and in the shell holes made by the
Japanese. And here, in the thick of it all, a man was ploughing.
Green things were growing--young onions--and the man who was weeding
them paused from his labour long enough to sell me a handful. Near
by was the smoke-blackened ruin of the farmhouse, fired by the
Russians when they retreated from the riverbed. Two men were
removing the debris, cleaning the confusion, preparatory to
rebuilding. They were clad in blue. Pigtails hung down their backs.
I was in China!
I rode to the shore, into the village of Kuelian-Ching.
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