No. I

Even before the Communists agreed to exchange sick and wounded prisoners, one shrewd Chinese commander near Panmunjom hastened to prove himself a friend of the new Red "humanitarian" line. Early one foggy morning last week, U.S. marines on a western-front outpost heard a surprising announcement over an enemy loudspeaker: "Attention all officers and men. We have one of your wounded. Send two men as soon as possible . . . We will allow you to come as far as the defilade area without firing on you."

Through their binoculars, the men on the outpost hill spotted a lone figure, clad in long woolen underwear and brown sweater, lying in an old Korean graveyard in no man's land, only 350 yards from the neutral perimeter of Panmunjom. Cautiously, a squad of marines started toward him. Part way down the hill, a Puerto Rican marine recognized the wounded man as Pfc. Francisco Gonzalez Matias, 21, of San Sebastian, P.R. In Spanish, Gonzalez was asked if he could walk. Clutching a handkerchief in which was wrapped a rosary, the wounded man struggled to his feet, stumbled toward the patrol. Twice he fell. A chaplain with the squad called to him to pray. Finally, 2nd Lieut. Kenneth Clifford yelled: "Hell, let's go get him." With four men, Clifford cut through barbed wire, ran in full view of the enemy to help Gonzalez back. The Chinese held their fire.

Later, aboard a hospital ship, Gonzalez could remember little of what had happened to him in the 30 hours since he had been ambushed, wounded in the neck and chest by burp-gun fire, and captured. He had been beaten by the Chinese, but did not remember being released. Said he: "I thought I had escaped." Actually, he was the first American to benefit directly from the new Red peace offensive, the first wounded prisoner to be returned.

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