Chiang Kai-Shek

by Emily Hahn

  Chiang preferred to risk that the Burma campaign be smashed and that threatened Kweilin be lost, with all the consequences involved, rather than give in on any of these points. In any case the Kweilin situation, as he and Chennault firmly believed, had been precipitated deliberately by Stilwell, who flew down to see it for himself on the fourteenth, declared the air base as good as lost, and ordered it to be demolished. Chennault believed that Stilwell held back help from Kweilin until it was too late. He declared that Stilwell was determined to prove himself right and everyone opposed to him wrong, that he intended to force the issue on Chiang.

  Chiang also held out against the idea of a combined war council. It would mean a change, he said, in the structure of the government: to allow the Communists a voice in the council without insisting upon their subservience to the National Government would be fatal.

  All this discussion was crowded into a few days, while the big brass and leaders of Britain and America were busy discussing the all-over plan of an attack on Japan in the spring of 1945. Roosevelt and Marshall, after a good deal of difficulty, had just succeeded in persuading the British that Burma must come first, when in the middle of the conference there came Hurley’s and Gauss’s reports that Chiang was going to pull the Yoke Force out of Burma. If he did this, all their diplomatic labor would have gone for nothing. For once Roosevelt was completely of Stilwell’s way of thinking.

  Everything came to a head in that rush of exasperation. The President felt he had been very understanding of China, generous in the face of tremendous odds. For months Stilwell had worked away, trying to undermine Chiang in Roosevelt’s opinion, and Roosevelt had resisted. And this was the reward he got—this shilly-shallying, this open defiance of men who knew what they were talking about. Because of his personal dislike of those deserving people, the Communists, Chiang was imperiling the entire future of the Far East. He would lose the war in China for the United Nations if somebody didn’t put a stop to it. Roosevelt thoroughly agreed with Marshall and the rest of the War Department at last: they would have to put the screws on Chiang Kai-shek.

  Writing in the first person, the President told the Generalissimo that he must be prepared to “accept the consequences and assume the personal responsibility” unless he reinforced the Yoke Force in the Salween area and sent them forward in order to open the road. Chiang must also place Stilwell “in unrestricted command” of all his forces, or, again, face the consequences.

  The President pointed out that as recent defeats in China had left Kunming in danger, the air route too might soon be cut off, and all China’s and America’s effort would thus be lost and wasted. He added a few comparatively sweet words about Chiang’s farsighted vision and said he had been frank because it appeared evident “that all your and our efforts to save China are to be lost by further delays.” But nothing could sweeten the bitter fact that he was laying down the law in most peremptory fashion to a proud man, the leader of a nation which still considered itself independent.

  Roosevelt meant his words to be administered as a firm warning, not a slap in the face. To Stilwell, however, the message looked like a gift from heaven, a weapon specially fashioned for his revenge. It arrived on September 19. Stilwell put it in his pocket and set out happily to deliver it in person to the Generalissimo. Chiang was in conference at the time with Hurley, still wrestling over the question of Stilwell’s limits of authority. Hurley knew that Stilwell was demanding “nothing less than full power, including the right of reward and punishment … and of appointment and relief. He [the Generalissimo] must accept the appointment of foreigners in some positions.… The Generalissimo must refrain from any interference in operations.” Hurley believed that Chiang was just about to capitulate when the blow fell.

  Stilwell asked Hurley to step outside for a moment, and with exultation showed him what he had in his pocket. Hurley was shocked. He wanted to break it to Chiang orally. He said, “You shouldn’t now because of this firm language pile it on him at the time when he felt compelled to make every concession that we have asked. He has made them; he is ready to go; he is ready to bring troops down from the north to reinforce you on the Salween front; he is going to appoint you commander-in-chief.”

  Stilwell said, “Well, I am directed by the President to deliver this.” Then he went in quietly and accepted a cup of tea, holding his fire for a few delicious moments.

  He was about to have the message translated aloud by Chiang’s aide—“I’m here to deliver a message from the President,” he began—when Hurley interrupted, trying to make the occasion less painful. “Isn’t there a Chinese translation written out?” he asked. Stilwell admitted it, and Hurley handed it over so that Chiang might read for himself.

  There was a pause. Confucius’s gentleman showed no change of facial expression, though Hurley said later that he looked as if he had been hit in the solar plexus.

  “I understand,” he said at last. He leaned over and put the top on his teacup.

  “That gesture still means, I presume, that the party is over,” said Stilwell. Somebody assented, and the Americans left.

  “Mark this day in red on the calendar of life,” wrote Stilwell. “… I handed this bundle of paprika to the Peanut and then sank back with a sigh. The harpoon hit the little bugger right in the solar plexus, and went right through him. It was a clean hit, but beyond turning green and losing the power of speech, he did not bat an eye. He just said to me, ‘I understand.’ And sat in silence, jiggling one foot.…

  “I came home. Pretty sight crossing the river: lights all on in Chungking.”

  Once again Stilwell underestimated the degree of hatred he was capable of inspiring; once again he was to be surprised and indignant. It was the comparative stranger, General Hurley, who saw and understood the reaction of the Chinese. He realized that Chiang might give in on all the other points, but would never in the world, now, accept Stilwell as commander-in-chief. But Stilwell the veteran, the man of experience, was certain that they would have it all their own way.

  A few days went by. The expected capitulation didn’t take place, and in Washington, as tempers cooled, their owners began to think again. It was all very well to tell the Generalissimo to go it alone, but if he gave up now, all the Japanese soldiers in China, hitherto bogged down, would have to be dealt with by the other allies. In spite of Stilwell’s plaints, Chiang did have his uses.… Stilwell, waiting for news, calmed his nervousness with such reassurance as sympathetic friends could give. “Madame Sun wants me to represent China at the Peace Conference,” he reported. “Says I would do more for China than the Chinese. That I have a reputation among the Chinese people for standing up for them.” He had a large following among the American newspapermen, too, and they all told him how right he was.

  Then came the kickback. On September 25 Hurley broke the news. With certain reservations the Generalissimo accepted the idea of an American commander of Chinese forces. He was also willing to consider an amount of reorganization in the Army. But he wouldn’t have Stilwell around any more. He had written to Roosevelt, “I cannot … confer this heavy responsibility upon General Stilwell, and will have to ask for his resignation as chief of staff of the China theater and his relief from duty in this area.”

  “Two years, eight months of struggle and then a slap in the puss as a reward,” wrote Stilwell. Bitterly hurt—but why?—he listed the Generalissimo’s crimes:

  “Chiang Kai-shek is the head of a one-party government supported by a Gestapo and a party secret service. He is now organizing an S.S. of 100,000 members.

  “… hates the so-called Communists. He intends to crush them by keeping any munitions furnished him and by occupying their territory as the Japs retire.

  “… will not make an effort to fight seriously. He wants to finish the war coasting, with a big supply of material, so as to perpetuate his regime. He has blocked us for three years and will continue to do so. He has failed to keep his agreements.

  “… has spoken con
temptuously of American efforts and has never said one word to express gratitude for our help, except in one message to the President, in which he attacked me.

  “… is responsible for major disasters of the war. Nanking, Lan Fang. Changsha and Hengyang. Kweilin and Lichow. Red blockade.

  “But … is the titular head of China and has marked me as persona non grata.

  “Therefore I cannot operate in the China theater while he is in power—unless it is made clear to him that I was not responsible for the September 19 note, and that the U.S. will pull out unless he will play ball.

  “Ignored, insulted, double-crossed, delayed, obstructed for three years.”

  Stilwell had already suggested a compromise, in the first days after the message, when in spite of all his bravado he was slightly apprehensive about what he had done to his enemy. He had offered to go to Yenan and persuade Mao to do what Chiang had always insisted upon, accept the Generalissimo’s authority. This strange man, who bullied like the grossest Communist caricature of American militarists, was really convinced by Madame Sun and others that he was spiritually akin to the Reds and could do anything with them. After this feat of diplomacy, he said, he would equip five Communist divisions and incorporate them into the Kuomintang army. But Chiang turned it down. Now Stilwell had an even more ingratiating suggestion. He was willing to sacrifice altogether his beloved hope of using Communists in the forces. He even offered to bring back the Yoke Force from Burma. Surely that was all the Generalissimo could possibly ask?

  No, it was not all.

  The American President was sorely perplexed, torn between the War Department’s wrath and Chiang’s incalculable resentment. The Generalissimo now made a statement to the C.E.C.: any American commander appointed in Stilwell’s place was to be under his orders, and not over his head. If the Americans refused to accept these conditions, well, China would manage to get along by herself.

  For Chiang this was gratifyingly worrying to Washington, but it also tore away the few strands of good will that might have remained. Stilwell’s supporters in Washington had been angered enough by the request to withdraw their man; this repeated defiance sent them into a frenzy.

  In the meantime the global picture changed and problems that had looked insoluble on September 19 were dwindling. The fighting in Europe was longer drawn out than the United Nations had counted on, and that meant that the big push against Japan could not take place on schedule anyway. American action in the Pacific, on the contrary, was going better than anyone had hoped, with less expenditure of men. Japan’s air force showed signs of slackening. In the new plan, China’s part would be merely to continue holding down Japanese ground troops. The question of who should command Chinese forces was no longer vital.

  On October 5 Roosevelt told Chiang that he did not, after all, think it necessary or even wise for an American commander to be responsible for the Chinese Army, now that things there were in such a mess. Therefore it seemed to him quite reasonable that Stilwell should give up the post of chief of staff, remaining in China only as commander of the Chinese forces in Yunnan and Burma. Some third party would control Lend-Lease, and Hurley was to remain in Chungking.

  Chiang refused to compromise. Stilwell must get out, he insisted, he must get out altogether. He retailed to Hurley his complaints against Stilwell. In characteristic Chinese fashion he did not confine them to what we would consider genuine grievances—Stilwell’s attitude, his personality, and his penchant for lining up with Communists and fellow travelers. In Chiang’s version Stilwell was responsible for practically everything that had gone wrong with any project with which he was connected. Stilwell had kept his air force short of supplies; Stilwell had lavished and lost his best troops on Burma; Stilwell personified all the failures of Sino-American endeavor. Though the Americans considered this fantastically unfair, the Chinese thought it quite natural. Didn’t Chiang himself always declare that he was responsible for what went wrong in China, even when it was his own kidnaping?

  In any case, now that the end of Stilwell was in sight, the Generalissimo was willing to take a milder attitude toward the rest of the affair. He quoted Roosevelt’s statement that the U. S. Government should not assume the responsibility involved in appointing an American commander, because the Chinese situation had deteriorated. He said he did not altogether understand this statement.

  “First: No matter what has happened … I cannot personally escape the ultimate responsibility for the future in the Chinese theater. Even the responsibility of General Stilwell’s errors must be borne by me, since I allowed myself to be overpersuaded against my own judgment to countenance them.…

  “Second: I cannot feel that the deterioration is so serious as the President suggests. After long years of experience and firsthand knowledge of the Japanese methods and strength, despite the defeats in East China, I cannot foresee any disaster fundamentally incapacitating China.”

  The War Department must have sighed sharply at this, and smitten their brows in exasperation—dramatic America, always going to extremes, faced with slow-moving China, always ready to wait, always refusing to admit that anything comes completely to an end.

  Chiang continued. The statement, he said, was also distressing to him in another sense. “While I do not anticipate disaster, the situation in China is indeed critical. Aid is most needed in this hour of crisis. Yet the statement I have referred to appears to imply that aid will be withheld precisely because this crisis of the hour is upon us.…

  “I am wholly confident that if the President replaces General Stilwell with a qualified American officer, we can work out together to reverse the present trend and to achieve a vital contribution to victory in China.”

  This message and Hurley’s reports did the trick, finally. Clearly Chiang would never consent to Stilwell or any part of him. It really was, now, a matter of either Stilwell or the Chinese staying in China, and Roosevelt admitted it. He recalled Stilwell, appointing in his place, as chief of staff, General Albert C. Wedemeyer.

  The exchange was accompanied by shrill screams in the American press. Stilwell had prepared for it on October 16, the day after Hurley notified him that the matter was settled. “Saw Teddy White and Atkinson and told them some home truths.” On October 19 he entered in his journal, “THE AX FALLS. Radio from George Marshall. I am ‘recalled.’ So F.D.R. has quit.… Told White and Atkinson. They also were horrified and disgusted. Atkinson going home to blow the works.

  “October 20 … Brooks [Atkinson] and White in. Teddy White has written a last article.… The Peanut offers me China’s highest decoration. Told him to stick it up his——Saw Madame Sun Yat-sen. She cried and was generally broken up.”

  There was a flurry of resignations, and wild excitement in America from coast to coast. Most people had a simple reaction; one of Our Boys had been grossly insulted.

  Thinking of Yenan at this point, I am tempted to paraphrase the Hodgson poem:

  Picture the lewd delight

  Under the hill tonight—

  “Stilwell!” the toast goes round

  “Stilwell!” again.

  13 MANCHURIAN DOUBLE CROSS 1944–45

  In his relief at getting rid of Stilwell the Generalissimo made every effort to prove that he could be as co-operative as Washington wished. Various changes were immediately set in train, following Wedemeyer’s tactful suggestions, and reforms which the Chinese had hitherto stoutly insisted were impossible were now accomplished with no fuss at all. Chiang did a general overhaul. He appointed the efficient, modern-minded Chen Cheng Minister of War, a considerable step in the direction America desired. It was a considerable step in his own character, for that matter, to relinquish the claims of old friendship for the Army’s needs.

  Hurley seemed so successful with the Generalissimo that Roosevelt asked him to serve as Ambassador in name as well as act. Gauss had never played a very dazzling part in the post; perhaps the Chinese had obstructed him out of resentment. They were disappointed when he
was first sent out to Chungking, not from any personal reason but because he had already served in the past as consul in China. The Chinese felt that they had been fobbed off with something inferior. In their world ambassadors did not work their way up, but burst upon the diplomatic scene full-fledged and glorious.

  “We should have somebody more important,” said Madame Sun discontentedly.

  In an atmosphere of fresh good will, Wedemeyer at the end of October went to work armed with good manners and a clear understanding of the difficulties he was stepping into. With the one great exception of acceding to a coalition, Chiang was determined to minimize these difficulties. He was a completely different person, dealing with Hurley and Wedemeyer, from the man Stilwell knew. He assured the Americans that he would not recall the Yoke Force; on the contrary, he reinforced both armies in Burma and filled in the gaps which the campaign had left at Ramgarh. He repeated what he had said to Roosevelt, that all was not yet lost in East China. (Wedemeyer did not agree with him on that.) He even offered to Wedemeyer that command over his forces which he had so indignantly held back from Stilwell. But Wedemeyer had his instructions; he refused.

  From the time he took over, the military aspect of the China theater improved. It was divorced from the Burma-India theater, as a part of Roosevelt’s and the War Department’s recasting, and Chiang was now in so malleable a mood that the executive side of the new arrangement slipped into action without a hitch. The American general Sultan managed the Hump ferry from the other side. Wedemeyer, after frankly disagreeing with the Generalissimo over Kweilin—he said, like Stilwell, that it had to be written off—argued that the Japanese would most probably aim next for Kunming. Therefore Yunnan must be prepared for defensive action and all Chinese forces should concentrate on fortifying it, even at the expense of Chungking if necessary. If the worst came to the worst the government would have to shift again.