by Ha Jin
His fainting in the mountain gave rise to another couplet. This time I didn’t participate in making it, though. Zheng Yuan was the most active one, but he was no poet and couldn’t contribute a word. Song Ang and Guan Chi were the major authors. Now the Miss Jee poem had its fourth stanza:
Miss Jee, tiny appetite,
Cried for a bun in a fight.
One afternoon Wang Fukai complained that the doggerel didn’t feel finished. Everyone agreed, but nobody could add anything to it, hard as they tried. Poetry must reflect real life; without an actual occurrence, however smart they were, those poetic brains couldn’t create another good couplet about Jee. If what the lines described had not actually happened, none of us would accept them, because we could never libel Jee.
In several days we would leave for different units. Quite a few men were busy working on a new couplet, but to no avail. Not until the farewell dinner was there a breakthrough in the project.
Each squad was to eat the last dinner in their own room. We brought back dishes and rice in washbasins and liquor in thermos bottles. At last, we were able to eat and drink our fill. Certainly not everybody was happy during the last days, because some of us were assigned to good units while others had to go to bad ones. Song Ang, Zheng Yuan, and I were going to the Artillery Battalion at Guanmen Village, Guan Chi and Wang Fukai to the Fourth Company at Fang-shi Valley, Zhang Min to the Reconnaissance Company at Lujia Village, Jee Jun to the Ninth Company in Mati Mountain. Lucky for Wu Desheng, he would go to the Transportation Platoon at the Regimental Headquarters. This meant he was going to learn how to drive a truck. Such a bulky fellow, he should have driven a tank, as we had thought. Wang Fukai was scared, because his company was stationed at the front. On our way to the kitchen to bring back cabbage salad, he said to me, “I must write home and ask my dad to have me transferred back inland.” His father was a divisional chief of staff in the Thirty-ninth Army. Actually, Jee’s company was at the most forward position, only four li from the border, but he did not look disturbed. It seemed he would be the first of us to meet the Russians, and he was ready for it.
Since the night march, Jee had seldom said an unnecessary word; whenever free, he read by himself. Unlike us, he had more time because he didn’t write letters. In the eight weeks of the training he wrote only once, to his commune. Now, even a few minutes before the farewell dinner, he sat there alone by the window poring over Chairman Mao’s poetry. Though he looked uninterested in the feast, I caught him glancing at the liquor and dishes on the floor.
“Put that book away, Miss Jee,” Guan said. Then he turned to us. “Now begins the banquet.”
We all stood up, including Jee, and raised our mugs. Squad Leader Lu proposed: “May every one of you have a future as broad as ten thousand li!”
“Glasses dry!”
“Glasses dry!”
We all drained our mugs. Everybody turned to Jee; to our amazement, his was also empty. “You’re good, Miss Jee,” Wu said. “Come, let’s have another for our friendship.”
“Who’s your friend?” Jee refilled his mug and looked fierce. “Come on, glasses dry. Everybody, not only Hog Wu.”
We all emptied another mug, then began attacking the stewed pork and the fried yellow croakers. I felt sick, having never drunk so much; I sat down and tried to eat some scrambled eggs and mushrooms. Meanwhile, the others gobbled and gulped, laughing and talking about their units and possible job assignments.
We hadn’t expected Jee to have a large capacity for alcohol. After four or five mugs, most of us could no longer stand. Only Song Ang and Wu Desheng accompanied Jee drinking now, though nobody ever gave up eating. Jee challenged them again. Rolling his round eyes, Song said, “Wait a minute, I need to pee. Wait until I’m back with more room inside.” He turned to me. “Little Fan, do you want to pee?”
I slouched out with him, fearing Jee would dare me to drink more. We did not go to the latrine but just urinated outside the entrance of the schoolhouse, since we were leaving and wouldn’t have to do the cleaning ourselves. As our urine was drilling holes in the ice, Song yawned and chanted:
Hot pee melts a thousand feet of ice;
Good manure increases tons of rice.
“Wonderful poetry,” I said. The cold wind was hissing.
“Too bad we can’t finish the Miss Jee poem,” he replied.
When we returned, only Jee stood in the room. Wu was prone on the floor. “He’s defeated.” Jee pointed at Wu. “None of you is a man. Song Ang, it’s your turn.”
Song grinned and took a thermos bottle. “Let’s u-use this bigger mug, Miss Jee.”
“All right.” Jee picked up a thermos from the floor. They clinked and began drinking. Both of them, each with one arm akimbo, stood there as if blowing thick bugles.
Three minutes later, Song collapsed on the floor; neither of them drained the thermos bottle. Jee looked at me, his face stained with tears and liquor. I thought he would challenge me, but he didn’t.
“I screw all your ancestors!” he cursed. “I came to fight the Russians, but I have to fight you hooligans!” He smashed the thermos on the floor. Our squad leader moaned in response to the bang, but he couldn’t sit up.
Jee was wailing. “Ah, if you’re your fathers’ sons, get up, let’s drink like men! Zheng Yuan, you said I have a tiny appetite. Come, let’s eat together.”
To our surprise, Zheng sat up and said calmly, “Miss Jee, let’s eat.” He took a bowl of rice, and so did Jee. Then they started eating.
A few of us managed to sit up watching the contest. In no time they finished the rice, but Zheng gave up and said he had a stomachache. Who wouldn’t? Everyone had already eaten many bowls.
Then Wu got up from the floor and challenged, “Miss Jee, let’s see who can eat more hot pepper.”
“All right, I’ll accompany you to your end.” Jee breathed rather heavily, his nose running.
They each had half a bowl of rice and covered it to the rim with chili powder. They mixed the white and the red together in the bowls and then set about eating. Wu moved his chopsticks slowly, while Jee gobbled with bubbling noises.
All of a sudden Jee dropped to the floor; the bowl bounced to the radiator and shattered. His legs were twisting as he turned from side to side screaming for help. We were scared, and had no idea what to do.
Song Ang got up and moved close. “What’s wrong, Jee?”
“Oh, oh I busted my stomach!”
Squad Leader Lu climbed out of bed and went up to him. “Roll over.” He helped him turn prone. “There, try to throw up. Throw up as much as you can.”
“Oh I can’t. My throat is clogged. Oh, oh —” Jee was sweating all over; his lips were purple and his face as pale as wax. Squad Leader Lu staggered out to call for an ambulance.
We were scared out of our drunkenness and gathered around, but all we could do was spread a cold, wet towel on his forehead. Meanwhile, he never stopped groaning and twitching. “Jee, are you all right?” Wu asked.
No answer. We thought he was dying. I remembered a soldier in the other recruit company who had stuffed himself to death with mutton dumplings and apples. His stomach had been as big as a basin when the doctor had taken it out.
The ambulance came and took Jee to the Regimental Infirmary. Our company’s medic went with him, while we waited anxiously to hear about his condition. Late that night we were informed that Jee was out of danger. I thought they would cut him open, but they didn’t. Instead they made him drink a lot of soybean oil to induce him to vomit, and they also gave him enemas. Though stable now, he had to be kept under observation for a few days.
Before we set out for our new units the next day, we had no chance to say good-bye to Jee. Every one of us donated a yuan, a sixth of our monthly allowance. Since they both were to stay at the Regimental Headquarters, Squad Leader Lu Hai and Wu Desheng would buy whatever they thought appropriate with the money and visit Jee Jun on our behalf. They were to tell him that we all would like to
keep in touch with him.
The farewell dinner had provided those poetic brains with rich material for another couplet. With ease they completed the doggerel, which now went:
Miss Jee toured the borderline
With the fly open on her behind.
Miss Jee threw a hand grenade
Only to have her looks remade.
Miss Jee, loving noodle soup,
Dived into a caldron in a swoop.
Miss Jee, tiny appetite,
Cried for a bun in a fight.
Miss Jee, drinking like a whale,
Still can’t prove she is a male.
Everybody was impressed by the rhyme in the last couplet. We all wrote the poem down in our notebooks, as though it was our common heritage, which we would carry to the battlefield.
A LECTURE
Again it was time for studying the Party’s history. Secretary Si Ma Lin of the Radio Company had to rewrite his lectures, because the significance and nature of some events in the textbook changed each year. For example, the year before, Lin Biao had been “the Wise Marshal,” but the next year he became a traitor throughout the history of the Chinese Communist Party. If only there were a definitive textbook, then Si Ma would be able to prepare his lectures once and for all. That would save him a lot of time.
Recently he was tickled by an idea. It was said that a retired cadre, Liu Baoming, had been a participant in the Long March. Why not invite him to talk to the company? To begin this year’s study with a vivid lecture would at least arouse the soldier’s interest in the Party’s history. In addition, Si Ma felt that there might be something worth writing in the old revolutionary’s experience. He would take down what the old man said. If lucky, he might be able to cast the talk into an article and have it published somewhere. That would be a good way of showing the caliber of his pen to his superiors in the Divisional Political Department.
He discussed the matter with Company Commander Pei Ding. Though lukewarm about the idea, Pei agreed to have Old Liu over. The two company leaders were on uneasy terms because Si Ma was one rank higher than Pei, earning nine yuan more a month.
Si Ma went to Liu’s house, which was just a few blocks away from the barracks, to invite Liu officially. The old man agreed to come, and Si Ma promised that he would send an automobile to pick him up at one-thirty on Friday afternoon.
On Thursday, Si Ma called the Divisional Headquarters to arrange a jeep for Liu, but he was told that nothing would be available on Friday. Fortunately, the Radio Company had a Yellow River truck that could carry eight tons, so he dispatched it to the Lius’ the next day.
After the soldiers took their seats in the meeting room, Si Ma went to the front and said, “Comrades, this is our first lecture on the Party’s history. Our company is very fortunate today to have an old Red Army man to talk to us about the Long March. First, let me introduce to you Comrade Liu Baoming.” He raised his hand politely, palm to the ceiling, pointing at the guest on a front seat. His chin also jutted at him.
Liu’s white head rose before the soldiers. Many of them were surprised to find that the Red Army man was the small man who played chess with those retired workers near the entrance of the Divisional Headquarters every day. Liu gave a smile to the audience, waving his shriveled hand sideways. He sat down.
“As you all know” — Si Ma spoke again — “the Long March is a heroic epic that shocked the whole world. Our Great Leader Chairman Mao led the Red Army to climb the snow mountains, cross the grass marshes, fight the warlords’ troops and Chiang Kai-shek’s armies, and trek through eleven provinces; all together they walked twenty-five thousand li. The Long March saved our army, our Party, our revolution, and our country. When it started from Jiangxi Province in 1934, the Red Army had over three hundred thousand men; but when it reached Northern Shanxi the next year, there were only thirty thousand left. Comrades, so many Revolutionary Martyrs sacrificed their precious young lives for the liberation of the Chinese people. Today, four decades later, only hundreds of the Long March participants are alive in China. Our honored guest today, Comrade Liu Baoming, is one of them.
“Comrades, we must cherish this opportunity to learn about our Party’s glorious history. We must listen to him carefully and take down everything he says. Now, let us welcome Comrade Old Liu.”
In a storm of applause, the old man walked to the front and sat down at the desk. The orderly went over and poured him a cup of green tea. The room grew quiet as over one hundred pairs of eyers were fixed on Liu’s sallow, wrinkled face.
“Sons,” Liu said, “Little Si Ma wanted me to talk to you boys about the Long March. All right, I agreed. So I came. Now, let me first tell you how I joined the Red Army. It was in the spring of 1935, when I was seventeen. The Red Army came to my hometown, Mingyi, and took all the land from the landlords, and gave it to us poor folks. This means I wasn’t in the Red Army when the Long March started, and I joined in when it passed our place.”
The rustling of pens could be heard in the room. Si Ma wrote in his notebook, “Joined 1935, age 17.”
Liu paused and looked at the swarm of dark heads. He resumed, “Why did I join the Red Army? Well, ’cause I could have something to eat. Dad and I went into the mountains to carry down firewood and sold it in town. The work was hard, and we never had enough food and clothes. Then the Red Army came. They caught the rich men and let the poor folks share out their wealth and land. Good, those parasites had to be wiped out. At long last, we, the oppressed men and women, could straighten up our spines and let out our anger. We took those fat landlords to a riverside and stoned them to death one by one. I was convinced that the Reds were our poor folks’ army, so I joined in. For the first time, I had enough warm rice in my stomach and new clothes on my body. Two weeks later, I left home with the Red Army, for good.”
Liu paused and looked rather vacant. “What should I talk about next, Little Si Ma?”
“Talk about the heroic deeds, like climbing the snow mountains and crossing the grass marshes.” Si Ma was amused; he glanced at Commander Pei, who was gazing at Old Liu. Apparently Pei liked the old man and the way he talked.
“Oh yeah, the snow mountains,” Liu resumed. “It was in the summer that year. We reached Baoshing, Szechwan Province, where the snow mountain is called Mount Jiajin. Nobody could see its peak, which disappeared in the clouds. When we set off, we didn’t know it was all covered with snow. It was pretty warm at the foot of the mountain. In the beginning we even cracked jokes on the way, but after an hour, things changed. It began to snow, and then cold winds were howling. We had on only summer clothes. Oh, everybody began trembling with cold and fear. You could hear ghosts and spirits screaming on the mountain and in the black sky. I lost my sandals. They were no use anyway, ’cause my feet had to tread through the snow. Some men started to pray. They believed the mountain’s spirits were angry at us. Then came a hailstorm. Oh heaven, those hailstones, as big as eggs, pounded us to the ground. One hit my forehead, and I was knocked down on my butt, my eyes filled with sparks and dark mists. Lots of men’s faces were smashed and covered with blood, and some knelt down, kowtowing to the mountain peak. It didn’t help. That was a spooky mountain; everybody believed so. In the end, we just buried our heads in the snow and let the hailstones strike our buttocks. The flesh is thicker there, more durable, you know. Ha-ha-ha!”
Some soldiers tittered. Si Ma turned around to stare at his men. Silence was restored.
“The grass marshes were no fun either,” Old Liu continued. “People got stuck in the mud — the more you struggled to get out, the deeper you sank into it. You couldn’t do a thing but watch your comrades sinking, and they disappeared right in front of you. I can’t stand to recall it, and my stomach will ache again. Their screams were horrible; I can still hear them. We ate everything in the marshes — our shoes, clothes, waistbands, anything that water can boil. Chairman Mao had his horse shot and gave the meat to some sick men. Let’s skip the marshes. I want to tell you somethin
g about the Tibetans. Any of you ever been to Tibet?”
“No,” a dozen men said.
“We went there before the marshes. All the villages were deserted. We had no food, so we cut their barley to eat. But we paid them, put the money at the edges of their fields and used small stones to hold it down. The Tibetans didn’t know that and thought we robbed them. They were barbarians and couldn’t understand we were the people’s army. So they deployed logs and rocks up on the hill waiting for us to pass the gorge in between. Once we entered it, they let everything roll down. My grandma! It was thundering on all sides, the logs rushing down on us, and the huge rocks smashing trees and anything in the way. We yelled and screamed and flung ourselves to the ground, and our horses jumped over our heads, running away. Every log finished off a dozen men; if you were not killed, you were scared half to death. I tell you, I couldn’t get up from the ground; my legs had cramps. I was lucky and crept under a disabled horse cart — that saved my life. Oh those Tartars, I can never forget how fierce they were!”
Some soldiers put their hands to their mouths. A few laughed out loud. Si Ma stood up, his face red and hairy, which at once reminded the soldiers of his nickname, Monkey’s Butt, so they couldn’t help laughing some more. He said to Liu, “Old leader, tell us something about the battles and victories.” He looked at Commander Pei, who gave him a meaningful smile and shook his round head.
“All right.” The old man’s eyes twinkled, and his sunken mouth jerked to the left. Taking a gulp of tea, he spoke again. “You’ve all heard of those victorious battles lots of times and must have calluses in your ears. Let me think of something else. Yes, here’s one. How can I forget it? After Liu-pan Mountain, we arrived in a small town called Chuzhi, and we were putting up our tents for the night. All of a sudden, the enemy’s cavalry came in the dark. We had walked for a whole day and had no strength left to fight. But the enemy and their horses were fresh; they’d been waiting for us for days. At once our troops burst out in every direction. We dashed around running for our lives. It was impossible to fight the enemy, and we had no horses and no time to deploy our men for a counterattack. I lost my head, just following those men in front of me. We jumped down a cliff that was not very deep. I lost my rifle there. Life was more important, so I didn’t stop to retrieve it. I lost my cap too. We were just running and running. Then I vaulted over a small haystack and landed in a pigsty. My face hit a slanting pole, and my nose was bleeding.”
