Anthony Grey

by Peking- A Novel of China's Revolution- 1921-1978 (epub)

  “Big Liang, take the baskets,” he yelled. “Get them away from here.”

  The older boy quickly picked up the bamboo and heaved the heavy baskets clear of the ground: balancing them on his right shoulder as his father had taught him, he sprang away in the direction of the artillery barrage. Little Liang followed close behind him, running as fast as his legs would carry him.

  The two soldiers facing the armed cook boy stared stupidly at him. Beside them their fallen comrade scrambled slowly to his feet, his face dark with anger. “Shoot him!” he hissed. “Shoot him!”

  The two men started to raise their rifles but Liang did not flinch. Lifting his own weapon quickly into the firing position he had been taught to employ in his Chentai militia unit, he fired three quick shots at point-blank range and the Kuomintang deserters staggered back from him and collapsed. Liang did not wait to discover if they were dead; flinging the rifle aside, he turned and raced away down the street after his sons, calling loudly to them to keep running fast in the direction of the fighting.

  18

  In Jakob’s ears the boom of the Red Army’s artillery was like thunder. Half walking, half running amid a yelling, braying surge of men and animals spilling down a rain-swept hillside, he felt the ground beneath his feet throb every time the heavy guns and trench mortars unleashed a new broadside against the ridge that rose steeply above the next valley. The Communist guns had been sited in hastily dug fortifications half a mile to the east of the column’s route, close enough for Jakob to see the orange tongues of flame spurting repeatedly from their muzzles. Smoke mushroomed from the improvised emplacements at each new detonation and swirled on the gusting wind toward the marchers, thickening the late afternoon murk closing in around them.

  The high-pitched whine of enemy shells filled the air after each answering roar from the Kuomintang batteries. The guns of the government troops had been carefully dug in along the top of the distant ridge and as the Red Army marchers struggled down the rock-strewn slope they cocked their heads, trying to anticipate the direction of each successive salvo. Geysers of earth climbed skyward from the hillside all around them as the Kuomintang gunners searched methodically for the emplacements where the Communist guns were hidden. Two or three times Jakob saw a Red Army artillery piece rise up from the ground, spinning slowly end over end amid a black spout of mud and rock; on each occasion, the crews were left sprawling over the edges of their embrasures like lifeless rag dolls but replacement crews quickly appeared alongside the stretcher-bearing medics, hurrying forward to begin the task of reviving the firing position. Whenever shells exploded among the columns of marchers, the survivors rushed on in accordance with strict orders, leaving volunteer parties to carry away the dead and wounded on improvised stretchers made from the doors of village houses.

  Like all the other prisoners pressed close about him, Jakob was sobbing and gasping for breath: his lungs ached from the fierce exertion and both his feet, protected by only a few remaining shreds of rice straw, were badly swollen and bleeding. Each time he set a foot to the ground he winced and groaned inwardly as an agonizing fire burned upward through his ankles and legs. His arms were still lashed together behind him and the pain this induced in his upper limbs had spread into his back, and shoulders. As the downward slope steepened, he stumbled frequently and might have fallen if the other Chinese prisoners and their guards, mutely joined for once in the common desire to survive the artillery onslaught, had not been marching shoulder to shoulder. In their haste, the troops were breaking ranks to overtake slower men ahead, and the column was starting to spread across the hillside in an undisciplined scramble. On all sides amid the explosions, men were shouting angry orders and curses at one another in the accents of half a dozen provinces while the struggling pack mules and horses added their terrified braying and snorting to the din.

  Every few minutes Jakob made a deliberate effort to raise his eyes to peer ahead into the driving rain. He could still see the furled Red Army standard being carried at the head of the guards’ detachment and the sight of its waterproof canvas cover bearing the glimmering star of Bethlehem sustained him and revived his fading strength. The oils of the painting were beginning to crack and flake but the outline of the star, shining against the dark of the Christmas sky, remained comfortingly distinguishable.

  The nonstop forced march had been ordered suddenly at dawn three days earlier without any prior warning or explanation. The entire column had been hurrying forward in a headlong rush ever since, marching four hours and resting four hours, around the clock. Sleep and a few mouthfuls of food had to be snatched wherever a halt was called — crouching by the flag stoned trails of the plains, squatting on precipitous mountainsides, or leaning against tree trunks in the dark, damp forests.

  Through the pain and exhaustion, however, Jakob could see that the severe hardships of this stage of the march were being shared by prisoners, guards, and soldiers alike. During rest stops on the second day, many of the young Red Army soldiers sprawled on their backs near him had been weeping with the pain of their blistered and lacerated feet. Later he had overheard one of his guards telling another that there had been a sudden rise in the number of deserters. Muttered complaints were being exchanged openly by passing troops and an air of anxiety and uncertainty began spreading like wildfire through the column. The unit commanders had obviously reported these signs of failing morale to senior officers, for shortly after daylight that morning civilian cadres, wearing the badgeless tunics of political commissars, began galloping back and forth along the column on sturdy-legged ponies, yelling exhortations to the marchers to speed up.

  “The forces of the Kwangsi warlords are attacking the flank of the rear guard!” they shouted again and again. “Keep moving! Keep moving — the column’s bunching. If you don’t speed up, your comrades in the Fifth Corps will be forced to stand and fight a pitched battle to protect your backs!”

  Hour by hour the thunder of artillery and the rattle of machine- gun fire had grown, reverberating on the column’s southern flank as well as ahead of the vanguard regiments leading them westward. From out of the mountain valleys and across the open plains other dense columns of Red Army men had appeared during the morning, moving with the same desperate haste. As they merged and flowed together Jakob realized that the Communist forces must have been pushing across some parts of southern Hunan in two or three parallel swaths, which were re-forming once more into a single massive body.

  When the moving columns joined up, the roped lines of prisoners had been drawn aside to allow more important units and ordnance to move ahead. Standing dejectedly in the downpour, they had watched cartloads of wounded men with bandaged heads and limbs rumble past, drawn by oxen, donkeys, and horses. Long trains of mules followed, harnessed together, swaying under heavy boxes of captured arms and ammunition. Coarse-voiced muleteers, marching at their heads, whipped the straining animals constantly with thick bamboo flails to keep them moving through the mire. Fraying ropes parted and precious loads of food and weaponry spilled into the mud; exhausted animals fell and were shot or dragged reluctantly to their feet; axles snapped, carts overturned, coolie carriers stumbled, fell, and rose again, cursing volubly. But always they redistributed their burdens with the utmost care and moved on at a trot, screwing up their faces against a cold, drenching rain whose only virtue was that it was keeping the government air squadrons and their lethal bomb loads away from what had become a headlong retreat.

  When the flow of marching men and animals eased, the prisoners moved on again, but they were halted repeatedly by their guards as yelling mounted commanders emerged from the curtains of rain to force a passage for their armed units through the growing confusion. The din of the artillery barrage became deafening as the column neared the ridge from which the Kuomintang guns were shelling the route. All around Jakob the faces of his fellow prisoners blanched with fear. The whistle of the shells grew more shrill, and during the helter-skelter dash down the exposed hillside, J
akob kept his gaze focused steadily on the canvas cover of the furled Red Army banner as it bobbed jerkily above the heads of the guards’ detachment. At the foot of the slope the column wheeled sharply to the south, moving down beyond the range of the guns into a thick pine forest. Among the trees the noise of the artillery duel faded and the sight of the green fronds spreading above their heads soothed and reassured the frightened prisoners. After the terrifying dash across the bare hills, the protection of the pines seemed as comforting as a mother’s embrace and all the captives instinctively slackened their pace, wishing to linger in the forest as long as possible. But again the guards harangued them with renewed threats and curses, and they struggled wearily onward.

  Beyond the forest lay another rolling expanse of gray, empty hillsides and as Jakob and his fellow prisoners emerged from under the dripping branches of the pines, sudden orders to halt echoed loudly down the ranks. The marchers sank immediately to the muddy ground to rest. In the near-silence, the faint voices of political commissars addressing successive groups of troops reached their ears. Riding the lines at a gallop, the cadres were stopping every hundred yards or so and after a few minutes a stocky northerner reined in his horse in front of Jakob to address the guard units.

  “Comrades,” cried the cadre, raising himself high in his stirrups, “the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party regards you all as the backbone of the revolution. Because of you the future of the revolution is bright and glorious! But in the present all of us face great difficulties. We are all very tired. We’ve been marching nonstop for three days and you have a right to know why. .

  The commissar lowered himself into his saddle and leaned forward on its pommel.

  “The reason is this. The traitorous Chiang Kai-shek, instead of fighting the Japanese invaders of our country, has concentrated twenty of his divisions in this region and is deploying them to the north of us. Our scouts have spied on them secretly and they report that there are four hundred thousand well-armed men in those divisions. . . .They’ve been marching parallel with us for two weeks or more. They’re making for the mighty Hsiang River, which lies forty li to the west. From the south, troops of the Kwangsi warlord clique are closing in all along our flank. In the rear, regiments of the Hunan and Kwangtung provincial governments are pursuing us closely. The enemy clearly intends to surround us on three sides and try to trap the whole of our Red Army against the banks of the Hsiang. Their plan is to wipe us out at one mighty stroke in the northeast corner of Kwangsi province

  The massed ranks of guards and infantrymen listened in a stunned silence to the commissar: despite their exhaustion they were sitting bolt upright, hanging on his every word. All around Jakob the troubled faces of the Chinese landlords and other prisoners reflected their confusion and bewilderment. Any elation they might have felt at hearing that government forces were close at hand and preparing to attack was counterbalanced by the terrifying prospect of being caught between the armies in the midst of a furious battle.

  “In six weeks, comrades, we have marched two thousand li from Juichin. Our feet have victoriously trodden the soil of four provinces — Kiangsi, Kwangtung, Hunan, Kwangsi. Do you think we’ve come this far to die on, the banks of the Hsiang River?”

  The commissar paused and looked around the crowd of soldiers, but no voice from the ranks broke the silence.

  “Didn’t our assault engineers with their ingenious pole charges blast a way through the three fortified barbed-wire encirclements built around our Central Soviet Area? Haven’t we fought off attacks every day since and captured all the food and ammunition we need from the enemy? Haven’t we spread the revolution to every town and village we’ve passed through? Haven’t we punished the evil landlords and divided the land among the poor peasants? And have we done all that, comrades, just to die on the muddy banks of the Hsiang?”

  The commissar rose up in his stirrups, his head cocked in a theatrical listening attitude; then he lifted a clenched fist high in the rain, as though responding furiously to his own question.

  “No, comrades, we haven’t! We shall break through the enemy’s encirclement at the Hsiang River just as we broke out of all his other traps!”

  The soldiers, their emotions finally aroused by the fire of the cadre’s words, raucously yelled their approval and punched the air above their heads. Sitting back in his saddle again, the cadre beamed with satisfaction as he swung his gaze back and forth among the throng. Then he lifted his hand once more, demanding silence.

  “The Seventh Red Army Corps, comrades, will continue to protect our left flank, the Ninth Corps will protect our right. And as always the brave fighters of the Fifth Army Corps will continue to serve as our rear guard. Shielded by the strength of this invincible armed corridor, the leading comrades of the General Headquarters, the Revolutionary Military Commission; and the Central Committee of the Party will march across the turbulent waters of the Hsiang River to safety — and lead us on to victory. We shall survive to build glorious new soviet areas. We shall live on to fight the Japanese invader and drive him out of our country. Every man must fight to the last ounce of his strength at the Hsiang River. All of you who can do this and hold on steadfastly to the end will go down in history as heroes of our great revolution!”

  The soldiers rose, yelling, to their feet and with a final flourish of his riding crop, the commissar wheeled his horse and galloped away down the line, followed by new gusts of cheering. Section by section, the column began to re-form itself and within minutes it had started forward again, moving with a renewed sense of urgency.

  19

  A few minutes later the rain eased, then stopped altogether for the first time in several hours. Although the leaden clouds did not break, the sky began to brighten and the light falling on the bleak hillside took on a harsh luminosity. From time to time as he marched, Jakob caught a distant glimpse of the Hsiang River flowing far below between steep cliffs. In the pewter glow of the sky the ruffled waters of the river seemed to shimmer with a metallic radiance and Jakob stopped to stare downward, straining his eyes for signs of troop concentrations.

  “Show some respect, imperialist spy! Stand aside!”

  The hoarse shout of the guard commander rang out a moment before a brutal blow between the shoulder blades sent Jakob sprawling face down in the gray mud of the hillside. Struggling to his knees, he looked back the way he had come: the troops behind him had been quickly drawn aside and marshaled into two ranks on either side of the wide trail. A sudden hush had fallen and in the center of the slimy, rock-strewn avenue left between the silent marchers Jakob saw a silhouetted group of figures rise into view over on the crest of the hill. Some walked, some were riding, and three or four armed bodyguards were clustered around each horse. Following close behind came several strings of heavily laden pack animals, and as the group moved nearer, Jakob saw that the figures were as damp and bedraggled as all the other marchers. Something about the manner in which they carried themselves, however, set them apart: whether mounted or walking, they held themselves straight, and Jakob noticed that their eyes, wary and intelligent, rarely looked left or right.

  Scrambling upright, the missionary took his place among the other prisoners as the leading figure in the group approached, walking with a quick, light stride. A lean, wirily built Chinese aged about fifty and of no more than average height, he had a strong, shrewd face as dark as the broad leather belt he wore around his waist. Good- natured humor lines were visible around his eyes, but his square, solid jaw and heavy brows hinted predominantly at an unusual physical strength. His sodden uniform of gray cotton bore no badges of rank; the four visible pockets on his tunic confirmed that he was a commissioned officer, but the red star on his shapeless peaked cap was his only insignia. As he passed the prisoners, his narrowed eyes flickered briefly over Jakob’s pale, blond-bearded face — but they didn’t linger.

  “That’s the commander in chief of the whole Red Army. He’s as strong as an ox. He’d rather walk t
han ride — and he carries half a dozen rifles when his men get tired.”

  A yard or two away from Jakob, a Red Army infantryman who wore the arm band of a company-level political instructor was whispering in the ear of a fresh-faced comrade, who was gaping open- mouthed at the men of the General Headquarters striding past.

  “So that’s General Chu Teh?” breathed the young soldier. “I’ve really seen him now with my own eyes, have I?”

  “Yes, comrade. And look! There’s the head of the Communist Party. His name is Po Ku. He’s the general secretary. He’s been to Moscow to study revolution under our friends the Russians.”

  A bespectacled Chinese with the soft, round face of an intellectual jogged by on a pony. He was wearing a high-necked civilian tunic and a remote, disdainful expression. The four tall bodyguards pressing closely around him carried their rifles unslung, with bayonets fixed, and as they marched they constantly scanned the track ahead for signs of ambush.

  “Who’s the one with the bushy eyebrows ?“

  Jakob turned to sec the young soldier gesturing toward a stocky, handsome Chinese with an open face and piercingly bright eyes who sat comfortably astride a bigger, high-stepping horse. He wore a red star on his peaked cap of soft gray cotton and there were red flashes on the collar of his high-necked Red Army tunic. Despite the rain and the mud he contrived to look neat and clean.

  “That’s Commissioner Chou En-lai. His father was a mandarin so he’s brainy and knows how the minds of our enemies work. He’s chairman of our Revolutionary Military Commission. . And look, there are two more generals — Lin Piao, the commander of the First Army Corps. . . and Peng Teh-huai of the Third. . . The Outside Country comrade with the moustache and the yellow hair riding between them is the ‘foreign expert’ sent to us by our Russian comrades.”