Land of Jade

by Bertil Lintner

  We left Panghsai on November 5 by jeep. At Mong Paw, an officer from the KIA’s 4th brigade awaited us by the market with a section of Kachin troops and a mule to carry our belongings. The trek from the valley floor up to his headquarters in the hills took six hours. It drizzled incessantly all day and the ascent was slippery. The camp was located in a patch of jungle near a small Kachin village called Man Pi. It was well-hidden under the dense foliage of trees and reminded me of the temporary guerrilla camps I had seen in the SSA’s area during previous visits to Shan State. But the Man Pi camp was bigger and even boasted a stage for dance performances and political meetings. And, as in every Kachin base I had visited, it had a large badminton court around which camp life seemed to revolve.

  Seng Hpung was waiting for us at the entrance and showed us to a neat bamboo building where we were to stay. We sat down inside and were served hot coffee and biscuits.

  “You’ve arrived at the right moment,” Seng Hpung said sipping his coffee from a white enamel mug. He was relaxed, the laces of his army boots undone. “The CPB is going to attack Hsi-Hsinwan on November 16. The date’s been changed. And we’ve decided to assist them by ambushing the reinforcements Ma Sa La most certainly is going to send in. And just before the main attack, the CPB also intends to ambush a convoy on the Burma Road. On the 9th. It’s just to create confusion and to give the local Ma Sa La commanders a scare.”

  In one sense, the news was remarkable. As relatively recently as ten years before, the Kachins and the CPB had fought bitter battles against each other in this very area. But since Brang Seng’s take-over in 1976 and the ceasefire agreement, Kachin Baptists and CPB Marxist-Leninists had managed to build a united front which, against the odds, appeared to work. I asked Seng Hpung if it was easy to cooperate with the CPB, and felt immediately I had touched on a sensitive nerve.

  “Yes and no. It’s good we cooperate against the common enemy. But sometimes it’s difficult to explain it to our people. They’re deeply religious, you see, like ourselves, and they fear communism. But after all, if we and the CPB started fighting each other again, it would be the villagers themselves who’d suffer most. Only the Ma Sa La would gain.”

  The front had been further widened by the formation of the NDF’s 861 Battalion. Seng Hpung now shared his camp with Col. Sai Lek and a company of SSA troops as well as a smaller contingent of Palaung guerrillas. The dense jungle, the presence of several allied rebel forces and the relative proximity to government positions on the Burma Road lent an unusual tension to the Man Pi camp.

  There may also have been a more prosaic reason: we soon discovered the place to be plagued with swarms of mosquitoes which zeroed in for the attack in short order. We were bitten all over and within a few days at the base, Hseng Tai’s face was blotched and swollen.

  Predictably, malaria was rampant in the area and we hoped the protection Hseng Noung—who was taking anti-malarial tablets—passed on to the baby in her milk would be sufficient. At night, we were careful to cover Hseng Tai with a mosquito net, but in the daytime it was necessary to fan the voracious little creatures away with a handkerchief or a banana leaf. She was now 14 months old and growing fast. It was during our stay at Man Pi that, to our satisfaction, she took her first steps.

  Sunday, November 9 brought rain. The drizzle continued into the afternoon and water dripped down from the foliage that covered the camp, making the paths muddy and slippery. The 4th Brigade’s propaganda team was practising on stage: the sound of patriotic songs accompanied by electric guitars floated through the jungle. I sat on a bamboo chair outside our hut, updating my diaries while Hseng Noung played with the baby.

  Then, at 2.15, the sound of heavy guns rang out from the direction of the Burma Road. The band continued playing and the beat of the music intermingled with the echo of distant recoilless rifle fire and mortar explosions. Seng Hpung came hurrying up the path towards our house, his face crinkled in a smile.

  “Can you hear? I think that ambush business is going on.”

  It was indeed. The CPB, it transpired, had decided to go ahead with an attack on a government convoy returning from Muse near the border to the garrisons in Kutkai and Lashio, further down the Burma Road. Opinions had differed on the advisability of the ambush. Seng Hpung had argued it would alert the Burmese Army and probably lead to a reinforcement of the undermanned government outposts in the area—thereby making the later, main thrust against Hsi-Hsinwan even more difficult. The CPB, on the other hand, had maintained that, if successful, the ambush would demoralise government forces and so make it easier to capture Hsi-Hsinwan.

  My own feeling was that the CPB was overestimating its own strength while underestimating the Burmese Army. In the years I had been covering the civil war, I had learned considerable respect for the Army’s fighting capabilities. Certainly, it was ruthless in its treatment of civilians in the frontier areas—a policy that was highly counter-productive both politically and militarily. It also suffered extremely heavy casualties due to poor medical support and inadequate logistics. But it remained an effective and highly experienced military machine with a courage and stamina probably unique in the Southeast Asian region, comparable only to the battle-hardened armed forces of Vietnam.

  The shooting in the distance continued for about half an hour before the guns fell silent. It was not until the following day a report came in to Man Pi. The rains had hampered the manoeuvrability of the ambush party and apart from damaging one truck and wounding a few government soldiers, the heavy bombardment had achieved nothing substantial. I was thus somewhat apprehensive about the imminent attack on Hsi-Hsinwan. If these were results against a convoy on the move, how would the communists fare against government forces dug into well prepared fixed positions?

  One afternoon in the camp, I was sitting as usual outside the hut when Seng Hpung came over.

  CPB officers planning the attack on Hsi-Hsinwan. Zhang Zhiming (Kyi Myint) identifies the target of first strike against the Burmese army.

  “Come with me,” he smiled. “A friend of yours has arrived.”

  Puzzled, I put down my notebooks and followed him. We walked to the outskirts of the camp and down a winding trail to a narrow, forested gorge. I noticed a new bamboo building had been built there, and armed guards were posted at the doorway. We went inside where the flickering light of a kerosene lamp lit up the room.

  “Oh, Mister Lintner. I thought it was not enough to say goodbye to you at Pa Jau, so I came after you for another farewell party.”

  A short, stocky and decidedly familiar figure sat cross-legged on the bamboo bed, smiling broadly.

  “Brang Seng! When did you arrive?”

  I then realised Zawng Hra was in the room too, sipping tea from an enamel mug.

  “We came a few hours ago. And we’re going to Thailand. All the NDF delegates wanted the general secretary and I to come down and attend the next NDF congress. We’re moving very secretly. If Ma Sa La finds out that we’ve left Pa Jau and are on our way to Thailand, it might be dangerous.”

  Only then did the significance of his parting remark at Pa Jau dawn on me. Brang Seng was going not only to the NDF’s headquarters near the Thai border—at least two months’ walk across Shan State through uncertain territory—but also to the outside world.

  Kyi Myint leading the attack on Hsi-Hsinwan, November 16, 1986.

  “The time has come to internationalise our struggle. I have faith in God and I’m confident that He will help us. Peace must return to Burma and there’s no way that can be done unless we get at least moral support from abroad. I want to travel to America and Europe and speak out on the NDF cause.”

  We spent an hour talking quietly in the hut which was hidden in the narrow gorge. Brang Seng and Zawng Hra planned to follow closely behind me down to Panghsang for talks with the CPB leaders before continuing to Thailand. This was startling news. If Brang Seng reached the outside world and succeeded in focusing international attention on Burma, the way to a politica
l settlement of decades of civil strife might be open.

  “Well, see you in Bangkok, then,” I said as I left. Events were beginning to gather momentum.

  I left Man Pi camp on November 14 with a section of KIA troops. The day was clear and the mountains of Kokang glimmered blue in the east across the Salween River. Amid the rugged hills, the Shan valleys of Mong Hom and Mong Ya lay like lush green oases. The walk was pleasant, mostly downhill and so less strenuous than on our arrival at Man Pi.

  When we reached Mong Paw in the afternoon, people in the valley were harvesting paddy by hand with sickles. Grazing water buffaloes lumbered along paths between the fields. It was a sadly improbable setting for the major clash of arms which was about to take place. As he had promised, Zau Naw was waiting to serve a delicious Chinese meal before we continued our march to the camp at the old mission compound.

  Kyaw Nyunt had arrived from Panghsai to act as my guide and interpreter. Some other CPB intellectuals in their early thirties joined us that night for some moonshine in the camp and we talked until late about the war. Most of them had joined the CPB during its heyday in the early 1970s and appeared wedded to the politics of Mao Zedong’s Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. I inquired discreetly as to their views of the CPB today but received only embarrassed smiles in reply. They were far more interested in questioning me about a trip I had made in 1982 with the communist New People’s Army in the Philippines.

  An eerie quiet hung over the Mong Paw valley on November 15. In the afternoon, hundreds of CPB soldiers marched into the camp, festooned with belts of ammunition and laden with the tools of their trade: automatic rifles, machine-guns, bazookas, hand grenades. Some units arrived in ancient Chinese army trucks which groaned up the dirt road to the old mission compound. In the distance, the sinister bulk of Hsi-Hsinwan loomed dark against the sky.

  Several CPB brigades had been mobilised for what was to be the most massive display in years of the communists’ still impressive firepower. Columns of troops and trucks crammed with men and munitions moved past well into the evening. Kyaw Nyunt and I sat under some cherry trees, planted by the Japanese during the World War Two, and watched the spectacle in silence.

  Kyi Myint was busy organising troop deployments but during a break in his duties, he called us over to a long, wooden building. Inside, we were shown a scale-model of Hsi-Hsinwan made from mud and sand. Forest patches were marked with green leaves on the hillsides, while small paper flags in different colours marked the government’s positions. Red cardboard arrows indicated various axes of attack. Apart from Kyi Myint, there were also some other ethnic Chinese officers whom I recognised from Panghsai—and Ohn Kyi, the impassioned theoretician.

  As the officers explained for my benefit how the assault was to be conducted, I could not but notice one point: no exit had been left for the Army’s retreat. I remembered a line from the 2,000 year-old Chinese classic, The Art of War by philosopher Sun Tzu: “It is military doctrine that an encircling force must leave a gap to show the surrounded troops there is a way out, so that they will not be determined to fight to the death.” I asked one of the officers why they were not observing an unquestionably wise maxim. Pursing his mouth and gesturing with a wide, sweeping motion of his right hand, he gave me less an answer than a statement of intent:

  “We intend to wipe them out completely. There’ll be no survivors.”

  I refrained from further questions, simply studying the model of the mountain. It was clear that preparations had been meticulous and Kyi Myint was eager to let me know all the details.

  “We’ve prepared our people for this for months. The rice harvest is almost over, so the fighting won’t interrupt that. And we must secure the trade route to Panghsai. From Hsi-Hsinwan, they sometimes fire rockets even at Mong Paw market.”

  What was remarkable was that this planning and logistical preparation had been going on under the noses of the Army units holding the mountaintop—and there was nothing to suggest they had got wind of it. Arms, ammunition and medicines had been stockpiled, hundreds of troops moved around, bamboo stretchers for the wounded made, and civilians had prepared rations—rice with meat and vegetables wrapped in banana leaves. And on Hsi-Hsinwan, only a few kilometres away, government troops were probably even now playing cards or writing letters to families and friends.

  Kyaw Nyunt and I left the camp in the evening by jeep. It was already dark as we drove out of Mong Paw, towards Nam Tao and the Burma Road. The headlights fell on columns of CPB troops trudging along the dirt road heavily laden with weapons, mortar bombs and other ammunition. Village militiamen in civilian clothes walked in pairs carrying stacks of bamboo stretchers; casualties, apparently, were expected to be heavy.

  I had never before seen such a concentration of troops and weaponry in Burma’s jungle war. This was no guerrilla band on its way to some hit-and-run raid, but a regular army moving men and materiel up to the start-lines of a conventional operation. Dark green Chinese-made army trucks roared past in clouds of swirling dust. Our own jeep laboured up steep inclines where the road led across the eastern flanks of Hsi-Hsinwan.

  We left the jeep at a crest just below the CPB’s position on Hill One. While we sat on the grass, quietly puffing on cheroots, long lines of men carrying munitions toiled along a path leading further up the mountain. Every now and then, more trucks halted and young soldiers unloaded wooden boxes of small arms ammunition, rockets, mortar bombs and grenades. Some of them hid empty boxes in the forest.

  I asked what they were doing.

  “They can use the boxes at home later on,” replied Kyaw Nyunt, adding with his usual giggle, “But who knows who’s going to return alive from this mountain?”

  When the full moon had risen over the mountain, we joined the line of troops. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic shuffling of hundreds of feet and the measured panting of weary men. It was almost 10 o’clock before we reached a well-sheltered, natural platform on the eastern slopes, screened by trees with a steep rock face behind it. This was a safe forward base where ammunition was stockpiled and the wounded could be treated. As well as the human porters, came mules carrying 82 and 120 mm mortar tubes, base plates, 75 mm recoilless rifles, and heavy anti-aircraft machine-guns.

  By means of recently strung out field telephones and walkie-talkies, some officers kept in touch with units further up the line; others held eleventh hour conferences over large scale maps. Radio operators were assembling equipment to monitor enemy communications traffic between Hsi-Hsinwan and the garrisons at Mong Yu, Namhpakka and Kutkai on the Burma Road.

  During the opening rounds of the fighting at least, the Burmese would be heavily outnumbered and outgunned. Only 130 government troops were stationed on the mountain—and the CPB front-line assault force was close to 1,000. In addition, other units had been sent down to the Burma Road to block reinforcements. The crucial question, on which the final outcome of the battle would likely turn, centred on the latter. To capture the mountain would not be that difficult: but if reinforcements succeeded in breaking through the communist blocking force and were supported by heavy artillery and aircraft, the CPB might well find itself thrown back onto the defensive.

  Kyaw Nyunt and I had brought a blanket each which we unrolled on layers of banana leaves; we did not even bother to put up a simple lean-to. It was freezing but, fortunately, Kyaw Nyunt had a bottle of Chinese brandy in his bag which we shared along with a packet of cream crackers before wrapping ourselves in our blankets and going to sleep.

  The pre-dawn chill woke us at 4 the next morning. We sat up bleary-eyed on our blankets and finished what was left of our crackers. Fifteen minutes later, the muffled sound of explosions erupted in the far distance. Kyaw Nyunt and I glanced at each other apprehensively. Suddenly, we discovered Kyi Myint was standing beside us.

  “Did you hear that?” he said, whispering out of excitement rather than necessity. “Our forces just blew some bridges on the Burma Road to prevent reinforcements from getting
here when we attack.”

  Shivering, we left the forward base at 5 am, walking uphill towards a command post from which Kyi Myint was to co-ordinate the assault. We reached it before dawn. Located in one of the few forested spots on the otherwise denuded Hsi-Hsinwan massif, it was sheltered by large, jagged rocks which looked as if they might prove useful in the event of air strikes.

  The clouds had not yet lifted from the Mong Paw valley to the south, and Hsi-Hsinwan looked even more menacing in the waning moonlight. We sat huddled between the rocks and Kyi Myint pointed out the four heights along the spine of the mountain. The first assault was to hit Hill Four, the weakest Army position where only two sections or about twenty soldiers were posted. Nearly 200 CPB troops were already approaching it in the dark, moving silently up the steep, bare mountainside.

  “As soon as they open fire on Hill Four, our heavy weapons unit on Hill One will bombard it with 120 mm mortars. The first rifle fire will be just the signal; only when the camp has been blown to pieces will the infantry storm it. Then they’ll move on to the other positions which we’ll capture one after the other.”

  We sat down to wait. Kyi Myint busied himself keeping in touch with his frontline commanders over a walkie-talkie; the field telephones linked him to support units in the rear and the forward base where we had slept.