Ocean of Words

by Ha Jin

  “I know his type well,” he said again, and stuck a piece of the meat into his mouth. “What do you think would be his best end, O-Old Gao?”

  “I’ve never thought about it. What do you think?”

  “His best end is to be killed by our enemy.” He chuckled. “I can see you’re shocked, but I told you the truth. My granduncle was like that too, the same … same type.” He raised his mug and drank.

  “Same as Dragon Head?”

  “Yes. My granduncle used to be a landlord, a ri-rich one. He overrode the entire village. Nobody dared oppose him, and he took care of everybody’s business. For instance, a cart driver stole a chi-chicken from a farmer’s house; he led the farmer to … to the cart driver’s home, carrying a big stone, and they smashed the only caldron on the kitchen range. The family couldn’t cook for many days. Everybody said my granduncle would be avenged sooner or later. My dad told me that he would have been e-executed by the Communists, if — if he had lived longer.”

  “How did he die?” I was curious. Diao would never talk like this when he was sober.

  “How?” He giggled, shaking his head. “He was beheaded by the Japanese devils. The Japs surrounded our village and brought all the folk to — to the marketplace. They ordered them to tell where the guerrillas hid themselves. The folk didn’t know. The Japs set two straw cutters in the front of the crowd and said they would chop off some heads if the folk didn’t tell them. My granduncle stepped out and said he knew, but he wouldn’t tell. The Japs were mad and or-ordered him to go down on his knees. He refused. They beat him to the ground with gun butts, and … and put him under the blade. Still he wouldn’t tell, and never stopped cursing, so they cut his head off.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The villagers all said that only my granduncle knew … where the guerrillas were, and that he was the liaison man of the guerrillas. In fact he was not. Since he had been killed, the Japs let the folk go in the end.”

  “That’s a heroic story,” I said, a little moved.

  “A funny one.” He giggled again, but his eyes looked teary. He turned his face to the gloomy wall. After a few seconds, he resumed. “The truth is that all the folk hated his guts, but nobody dared touch him, because he was the lolord in the village. If the Japs had not killed him, the folk would have buried him alive when the Communists came to start the Land Reform. Beheaded by the Japs, he became a hero, a famous one. People in the nearby counties would men-mention his name as a true Chinese. All the villagers were grateful and thought… he had sacrificed himself to save their lives. He didn’t love them a bit, to say nothing of sacrificing his life for them. I don’t think the idea of sacrifice had ever entered his head. Who knows what the devil was in him … that drove him to step out. The funniest part is that — when the Land Reform was about to begin, the head of the Work Group told my grandpa, in secret, to sell all our land. Promptly my grandpa sold it and told everybody … that my granduncle had left a large debt, and that we had to sell everything to clear the debt. So when the reform began, the villagers voted the Diaos’ class status to be middle peasant, since we were indeed as lan-landless as any of them. Isn’t it funny that the richest landlord turned into a middle peasant overnight?”

  He giggled huskily. “You see, if my granduncle had been alive, we would’ve been classified as a landlord family. The folk would never have let us Diaos go. They would have wiped us out. If so, I couldn’t be here, commanding the Communist troops.”

  “Old Diao, you cannot deny that your granduncle’s deed is a revolutionary part in your family history.” Although I said that, I felt his family’s class status should have remained as landlord.

  “Humph, what’s history?” He emptied his mug, giggling again. The tiny flame on the kerosene lamp flickered on the table. “History is a mess of chances and accidents. It’s true that my granduncle was killed by the Japs for his own good, for the villagers’ good, and for our family’s good. But while lying be-beneath the blade of the cutter, he couldn’t know the meaning of his death, could he? It’s all the later occurrences that made his death meaningful, isn’t it?”

  “You may be right, I’m not sure.” I was somehow puzzled by his way of thinking. “Then how do you compare your granduncle and Dragon Head?”

  “Old Gao, you’re really a simple, honest man. My granduncle died in the hands of our national enemy. That’s why we Diaos are still a Revolutionary Martyr’s Family. Likewise, if Dragon Head is killed by the Russians, or by anyone who happens to be our enemy, he’ll be a hero. Don’t you think so?”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way,” I admitted. “I don’t like Dragon Head much, but I can’t tell how he’ll end. He’s so young, probably not thirty yet. Maybe he’ll live longer than I. Who knows?”

  “How humorous!” He laughed, his round eyes shining a little in the dim light. “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor, Old Gao. Let’s forget Dragon Head. Cheers.”

  We drank the last drop. He returned to his room. I went to mine, leaving the mugs and the chopsticks on the table for the orderly to clear away.

  At four o’clock the next morning, I was woken up by a call from the Third Battery. Commander Meng spoke on the phone. “Our storehouse was broken into.”

  “What’s lost?”

  “I don’t know exactly at this moment. Commander Gao, I’m leaving for the storehouse now, and I will inform you immediately after I know.”

  “I’m coming. See you at the storehouse.” I put on my clothes and pistol and set out for the western end of the village.

  The dawn was just breaking, and it felt rather chilly walking through the moist air. Five minutes later, I was at the storehouse, where Commander Meng, Political Instructor Wang Hsin, and two soldiers on sentry duty had already gathered. There was a hole, as large as a jeep wheel, in the back wall. “Commander Gao, two of the transceivers are missing, so far as we can tell,” Meng reported.

  “Fortunately,” Instructor Wang said, “our ammunition has been moved to the new barracks — ”

  “Son of a rabbit,” I cut him short. “It’s Dragon Head! Yesterday afternoon he asked me for transceivers. I refused him, so he had them stolen at night. I’ll go and question him.”

  “No, you should not.” Commissar Diao emerged from behind. “Old Gao, don’t act rashly. We have to think about this.”

  At this moment a clatter of horses’ hooves came from the east. We all turned to watch. A group of fully armed militia riders were ambling away from the village. Their broad red standard was waving slightly in the pink dawn. One rider was carrying a dark box on his back. No doubt it was a transceiver. Dragon Head rode at the front on a large black horse, leading them northward to the Wusuli River.

  “Damn them all,” I cursed. “I hope they’ll be put out of action by the Russians.”

  “Old Gao, calm down, please,” the commissar said. “We’ll get him sooner or later. One cannot eat up a fat man in one bite.” Then he turned to the others. “You can all go back now. Commander Gao and I will handle this by ourselves. No one else is to know of this.”

  After they left, the commissar and I made our way back to the Battalion Headquarters. I couldn’t help cursing, but Diao remained quiet.

  “I’ll grab hold of him this evening and recover those machines,” I assured Diao.

  “Don’t do it. Please listen to me, Old Gao. It’s not time yet to settle things with him. Don’t you remember the saying that goes: ‘Today you caper about swaying your butt, tomorrow we’ll rip out your guts’?”

  “I know that, but if we don’t stop him now, tomorrow he’ll steal our trucks and cannons.” We turned at the corner of the village millhouse.

  “No, they don’t know how to drive a truck. They are horsemen.” He looked somewhat mysterious. “To tell you the truth, Dragon Head is on the list, and he will be dealt with eventually.”

  “What list?” I stopped.

  “I don’t know exactly. Anyway, we two cannot handle him. He�
�s too big for us. As a matter of fact, I have to call Regimental Commissar Feng Zhi and report on the whole thing. We shouldn’t do anything before hearing from the Regimental Political Department.”

  This was entirely new to me. I had never thought Dragon Head was so important that some secret eyes kept him under surveillance. That morning Diao called the regimental commissar and was told to wait for a decision.

  The order came after lunch. When Scribe Niu Hsi was cutting my hair in the middle of the yard, Commissar Diao came in and told me, “Old Gao, I just received a call from Commissar Feng. He told us to be quiet, as if nothing had happened.”

  “All right, I’ll be as quiet as a deaf-mute,” I said, keeping my head low for Niu Hsi to shave the hair on my nape. I felt Diao looked rather unnatural, perhaps because of what he had divulged to me the night before.

  “I’ve got your word, Old Gao. So the case’s dropped now.” He was about to leave.

  “Hold on,” I called him, and he turned back. “Old Diao, from now on, I don’t want to have anything to do with Dragon Head. I cannot endure him, and I may wind up calling him names and making a scene. So please deal with him yourself.”

  “That’s not a bad idea — I mean, to avoid clashes. He’s not so difficult to persuade. Fine, from now on I’ll stroke the dragon’s whiskers.”

  A week later, we all moved into our new barracks, and for the rest of the year I didn’t see Dragon Head again. It seemed that I had indeed washed my hands of whatever he did.

  3

  Because the Chinese and Russian governments had started to negotiate, the situation at the border was much less intense than it had been the previous year. Except for three days’ combat readiness in early March, it was rather peaceful throughout the winter. We spent most of the time carrying out drills and criticizing Lin Biao, who had plotted to assassinate Chairman Mao. It seemed the Russians had changed their minds and would not invade our country anymore. Over seventy of our older soldiers were demobilized in January. By now we had completely dissolved our contact with Dragon Head and his men. Even Commissar Diao no longer believed that we might need the militia as foot soldiers to defend our cannon emplacement.

  When spring arrived, I gave orders that each battery must open up wasteland as much as it could and sow soybeans and vegetables. That was the way to improve our food quality. Soybeans were vital, for out of them you can make oil, tofu, and soy milk. The next step was to raise pigs; every battery had to get thirty piglets. I told the soldiers, “Now we must learn not only how to fight but also how to live.”

  Dragon Head had not changed a bit. His men would still ride to the Wusuli River to keep watch on the Russians. Very often, when hoeing in the fields, we could hear gunshots — they never stopped practicing. Because we lived in our own barracks, we had no dealings with them. I ordered my men not to be mixed up with the militia without my or Commissar Diao’s permission.

  One summer afternoon we were planting cabbages near our barracks. As I was fetching water from a ditch with a pair of buckets, an explosion thundered in the north. Then some shells landed randomly, and numerous dark smoke pillars rose in the woods and in the fields. Large fireballs bounced along on the plain. One shell whistled by over our heads and exploded two hundred meters away in a valley. This is war. The Russians are bombarding us. I dropped the buckets and ran back to the barracks.

  Orderly Liu blew the bugle, and all our men dashed to the cannons. But I had no idea what orders I should give next. I called the Regimental Headquarters, and they didn’t know what was going on either. “What am I supposed to do? Wait to be shelled in the barracks?” I yelled at the staff officer on the phone.

  “Old Gao” — Regimental Commander Zhang Yi spoke now — “it’s not war. Remain where you are. We’ll know the truth soon.” The phone was hung up.

  Carrying my binoculars, I scrambled to the top of the hill to have a view of the northern land. There they were. Through the glasses I saw Dragon Head and his men, about twenty of them, riding desperately back along a path through the birch woods. Two Russian gunboats on the river were firing at our side aimlessly. To my surprise, another boat, full of smoke, was motionless, and its crew were leaving it. They jumped into the water, swimming to the other boats.

  “Damn it, it’s Dragon Head’s men,” I told Commissar Diao, who had just come up, gasping for breath.

  “Let me have a look.” He took the binoculars from me and watched.

  “It seems that the militia had a skirmish with the Russians on the river,” I said.

  “A gunboat is sinking, but I can’t see the militia.”

  “Let me have a look again.” I got the binoculars and watched. Now the disabled boat had disappeared, while the other two were retreating to their base. The gunfire had stopped. Everything had returned to normal.

  Half an hour after we came back to the barracks, Dragon Head and his cavalry arrived. Commissar Diao and I went out to meet them. All the horses were sweating, and some of the militiamen stood by their horses, bareheaded. Dragon Head couldn’t help laughing. “Record a merit for us, Commander Gao and Commissar Diao,” he shouted. “We got rid of one of the Russians’ river rats.”

  “Who gave you the orders to do it?” I asked.

  “We did it ourselves. What an experience. Bang, just one bazooka shot, and it crept no more. We lost nothing but some caps.”

  “You should not have done it, Dragon Head,” I said loudly, “The surface of the river is a neutral zone. This may cause a war.”

  “War? Sure, we’re fighting a war with the Russians, aren’t we? That’s why you’re here.” He looked irritated. “Tell me, Commander Gao, which side are you on?”

  “Cool it, Comrade Dragon Head.” Commissar Diao intervened. “I will report the victory to the Regimental Headquarters. I assure you that the Party and the people will not forget this heroic deed. Now you fellows return home and have a good rest. We will inform you of the merit soon.”

  “On your horses!” Dragon Head ordered. They all leapt into their saddles. “Commissar Diao, I’ll wait for your word,” he said from the back of his black horse.

  “Sure, you wait,” Diao returned in a low voice.

  They all dashed off, leaving behind a dusty cloud. I turned to Diao and asked, “Why did you call it a victory?”

  “Don’t be angry, Old Gao. Is a name so important?”

  “I don’t know how to play on words, Comrade Commissar. Neither do I bear a grudge against Dragon Head personally. He’s a brave fellow, I agree. But this is a matter of principle — we must never fire the first shot.”

  “I won’t argue with you, because what you said is absolutely right. But we had to find a way to dismiss him, didn’t we?”

  I didn’t answer, although I had to admit to myself that he was not wrong. We went separately to the batteries to explain to the leaders what had happened.

  The final decision arrived two weeks later. No merit citation was awarded to Dragon Head, but his militia company received an internal commendation which said: “Let the Invaders Come but Not Return.” I was bewildered. Why should the higher-ups praise the militiamen? Did they intend to encourage them to provoke the Russians again? Then why did we have to obey the orders not to fire the first shot? When I raised these doubts with Diao, he smiled and said, “You wait and see. It’s not over yet.”

  As he predicted, a month later the Military Department of Hutou County issued an order that required all the militiamen to turn their weapons over to the Military Department. From now on, private possession of these weapons would be dealt with as a crime. Because every piece of arms had been listed and numbered, each militiaman had no choice but to hand in whatever happened to be in his hands. Even a dagger or an ammunition belt had to go. At once, Dragon Head’s company was disarmed.

  “In a way, I feel sorry for them,” I told Commissar Diao one day. “They have had guns for quite a few years, then suddenly everything is gone.”

  “You have a good heart, Old Ga
o,” Diao said, laughing.

  I laughed too. “It must feel like you had a tidy sum in the bank yesterday, then overnight you’re penniless.” Although I said this, I did believe it had to be done that way. It was not safe to have so many civilians armed with guns when the Russians didn’t seem eager to attack anymore.

  The disarmament delivered a considerable blow to Dragon Head. A month later I ran into him in Guanmen Village, where I had my leather shoes repaired. I stood at the door of the cobbler’s shop, watching with amusement a group of kids forcing a bear cub to climb to the top of a flagpole that rose in the middle of the village square. “Up, up,” they shouted. Two long bamboo poles were poking the young animal from beneath. A boy catapulted a pebble at the rump of the bear, which at once sprang up two meters.

  Here came Dragon Head. He walked alone, his feet kicking away horse droppings now and then. His head drooped forward, as though he were watching his own shadow. The front of his gray jacket was open, revealing a large red character “Loyalty” on his white undershirt. He saw me standing by and turned his head away. His right hand moved unconsciously to his flank, which one of the Mausers used to occupy.

  “Dragon Head, how are you doing?” I walked up to him, holding out my hand.

  “Not bad, still alive,” he muttered. We shook hands. His large face was expressionless, and his eyes were ringed with yellow.

  I felt somewhat uneasy and managed to ask, “When will I drink your wedding wine? You’re going to get married soon, aren’t you?”

  “Not soon.” He shook his head. “Maybe at the Spring Festival. I don’t know.”

  “Don’t forget to invite me, and we’ll have a few.”

  “Sure, I’ll have you over.” He smiled, his large eyes glittering a little.

  “Anything I can do for you, please let me know, all right?”

  “Sure. Thank you for saying that, Commander Gao.”

  Although I had said that, I had no idea how I could help him. In fact, I could not, because what he really needed was nothing but weapons, without which he could not be the former Dragon Head again. Since the disarmament, the militia company had been literally disbanded. Now Dragon Head’s men would be carrying hoes and spades to the fields instead of riding with arms to the river.