The Odd Days

In a world in which the bizarre, the senseless and the cruel soon become commonplace, no one--outside the inhabitants themselves--paid much attention last week to Kukang. Three months ago it was a thriving coastal village. Its farmers and fishermen prospered from land and sea. And then the Communist artillery attack began, and the villagers hastily dug shelters in the ground.

After the Reds proclaimed their shortlived ceasefire, the villagers emerged from underground, and farmers went back to the fields to harvest what was left of their millet, sweet potatoes and peanuts. "If there is a lack of anything," Red China's Defense Minister Marshal Peng Teh-huai broadcast to the people of Quemoy, "just tell us and we shall give it to you. It is time now to turn from foe to friend."

By the Calendar. Last week the village of Kukang was only a memory. Nothing was left of it except the public well. Next to the well stood the ruins of the ancient temple that served Kukang's 180 families. In the rubble of shattered homes, the villagers had found 18 of their number, dead or maimed. Others have died since--one family of six in its bunker--the hapless civilian victims of the grotesque Red China assault that takes place every other day.

The people of Kukang, and all of Quemoy, now live--and die--by the calendar. On the odd days of the month, when Red shells pour thunderously in from the mainland, the people of Kukang stay holed in their shelters--grandmothers, babies, ducks and chickens squeezed tightly into dank caves, protected from the cold November winds only by tattered curtains of sacking. Their schools long since closed, children play in the caves with chunks of shrapnel. Night closes in early. By 6 p.m. the people have cleaned their bowls of rice, bean curd and cabbage and settled down on straw mats to await the dawn.

By Dawn's Early Light. On the even days, when the Reds do not shell the island (to prove that they can control its destiny at will even if they cannot seize it), supplies pour into the beaches from Formosa. Farmers swarm into the fields. But having learned to distrust the promises of Peking, they pack two days' work into the five morning hours, furiously irri gating, hoeing the weeds, planting winter crops. Some, like wizened Tun Men-tse, venture out before dawn even on the odd days, crouching in the dark to get in a couple of hours' labor. It is a gamble, but, says Tun, "we have to eat."

The fishermen of Kukang have not put to sea since the Reds began their bombardment Aug. 23. Their sampans lie bottoms-up on the beach, drying and cracking; their nets are in shreds.

An eerie silence descends as each even day draws to a close. Only an occasional nervous laugh betrays the outward calm of the courageous but tense villagers. They know that, come morning, the fickle, deadly torture from the mainland will begin again with rumble of cannon and flash of fire.

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