The Second World War

by Antony Beevor

  Stalin, however, continued to take his revenge upon Poland. On 5 March 1940, he and the Politburo approved Beria’s plan to murder Polish officers and other potential leaders who had refused all attempts at Communist ‘re-education’. This was part of Stalin’s policy to destroy an independent Poland in the future. The 21,892 victims were taken in trucks from prisons for execution at five sites. The most notorious was in the forest of Katy near Smolensk in Belorussia. The NKVD had noted the addresses of its victims’ families when they had been allowed to write home. They too were rounded up and 60,667 were deported to Kazakhstan. Soon afterwards, more than 65,000 Polish Jews, who had fled the SS but refused to accept Soviet passports, were also deported to Kazakhstan and Siberia.

  The French government, meanwhile, wanted to pursue the war as far from its own territory as possible. Daladier, exasperated by French Communist support for the Nazi–Soviet pact, thought that the Allies could weaken Germany by attacking Hitler’s ally. He advocated a bombing raid on Soviet oil installations at Baku and in the Caucasus, but the British persuaded the French to abandon the idea because it risked bringing the Soviet Union into the war on the German side. Daladier later resigned and was replaced by Paul Reynaud on 20 March.

  The French army, which had borne the brunt of the Allied effort in the First World War, was widely considered to be the strongest in Europe and certainly capable of defending its own territory. More perceptive observers were less convinced. As early as March 1935, Marshal Tukhachevsky had predicted that it would not be able to stand up to a German onslaught. Its fatal flaw, in his view, was that it was too slow to react to an attack. This came not just from a rigidly defensive mentality, but also from an almost complete lack of radio communications. In any case, the Germans had broken the antiquated French codes in 1938.

  President Roosevelt, who had paid close attention to despatches from his embassy in Paris, was also well aware of French weaknesses. The air force was only starting to replace its obsolete aircraft. The army, although one of the largest in the world, was cumbersome, old-fashioned and excessively reliant on its Maginot Line of defence along the German border, which imbued it with an immobile frame of mind. Its huge losses in the First World War, with 400,000 casualties in the Battle for Verdun alone, lay at the root of this bunker mentality. And as many journalists, military attachés and commentators observed, the country’s political and social malaise after so many scandals and fallen governments had sapped any hope for unity and determination in a crisis.

  Roosevelt, with admirable far-sightedness, saw that the only hope for democracy and the long-term interests of the United States was to support Britain and France against Nazi Germany. Finally, on 4 November, 1939, the ‘cash and carry’ bill passed by Congress was ratified. This first defeat for the isolationists allowed the two Allied powers to purchase arms.

  In France, the air of unreality persisted. A Reuter’s correspondent visiting the inert front asked French soldiers why they did not shoot at the German troops wandering about in clear view. They looked shocked. ‘Ils ne sont pas méchants,’ replied one. ‘And if we fire, they will fire back.’ German patrols probing along the line soon discovered the ineptitude and lack of aggressive instinct of most French formations. And German propaganda continued to encourage the idea that the British were getting the French to bear the brunt of the war.

  Apart from some work on defensive positions, the French army undertook little training. Their troops just waited. Inactivity led to bad morale and depression–le cafard. Politicians started to hear of drunkenness, absence without leave and the slovenly appearance of troops in public. ‘One can’t spend one’s whole time playing cards, drinking and writing home to one’s wife,’ wrote one soldier. ‘We lie stretched out on the straw yawning, and even get a taste for doing nothing. We wash less and less, we don’t bother to shave any more, we can’t raise the effort to sweep the place or clear the table after eating. Along with boredom, filth dominates in the base.’

  Jean-Paul Sartre in his army meteorological station found the time to write the first volume of Chemins de la liberté and part of L’Être et le néant. That winter, he wrote, it was ‘a question only of sleeping, eating and not being cold. That was all.’ General Édouard Ruby observed: ‘Every exercise was considered a vexation, all work a fatigue. After several months of stagnation, nobody believed any more in the war.’ Not every officer was complacent. The outspoken Colonel Charles de Gaulle, a fervent advocate of creating armoured divisions as in the German army, warned that ‘to be inert is to be beaten’. But his calls were dismissed by irritated generals.

  All the French high command did to maintain morale was to organize front-line entertainment with visits from famous actors and singers such as Édith Piaf, Joséphine Baker, Maurice Chevalier and Charles Trenet. Back in Paris, where the restaurants and cabarets were full, the favourite song was ‘J’attendrai’–‘I’ll wait’. But more alarming for the Allied cause were those right-wingers in influential positions who said ‘Better Hitler than Blum’, a reference to the socialist leader of the 1936 Popular Front, Leon Blum, who was also Jewish.

  Georges Bonnet, the arch-appeaser of the Quai d’Orsay, had a nephew who before the war had served as a conduit for Nazi money to subsidize anti-British and anti-semitic propaganda in France. The foreign minister’s friend Otto Abetz, later the Nazi ambassador in Paris during the occupation, had been deeply implicated and expelled from the country. Even the new prime minister Paul Reynaud, a stalwart believer in the war against Nazism, had a dangerous weakness. His mistress, Comtesse Hélène de Portes, ‘a woman whose somewhat coarsened features exuded an extraordinary vitality and confidence’, believed that France should never have honoured its guarantee to Poland.

  Poland, in the form of a government-in-exile, had arrived in France, with General Wadysaw Sikorski as prime minister and commander-in-chief. Based in Angers, Sikorski set about reorganizing the Polish armed forces from the 84,000 who had escaped mainly through Romania after the fall of their country. A Polish resistance movement had meanwhile begun to develop back in the homeland; in fact it was the most rapidly organized of any occupied country. By the middle of 1940, the Polish underground army numbered some 100,000 members in the Generalgouvernement alone. Poland was one of the very few countries in the Nazi empire where collaboration with the conqueror was virtually unknown.

  The French were determined not to share the fate of Poland. Yet most of their leaders and the bulk of the population had totally failed to recognize that this war would not be like earlier conflicts. The Nazis would never be satisfied with reparations and the surrender of a province or two. They intended to reorder Europe in their own brutal image.

  4

  The Dragon and the Rising Sun

  1937–1940

  Suffering was not a new experience for the impoverished mass of Chinese peasantry. They knew all too well the starvation which followed flood, drought, deforestation, soil erosion and the depredations of warlord armies. They lived in crumbling mud houses and their lives were handicapped by disease, ignorance, superstition and the exploitation of landowners who exacted between a half and two-thirds of their crop in rent.

  City dwellers, including even many left-wing intellectuals, tended to see the rural masses as little more than faceless beasts of burden. ‘Sympathy with the people is utterly useless,’ a Communist interpreter said to the intrepid American journalist and activist Agnes Smedley. ‘There are too many of them.’ Smedley herself compared their lives to those of ‘peasant serfs of the Middle Ages’. They existed off tiny portions of rice, millet or squash, cooked in an iron cauldron, their most valuable possession. Many went barefoot even in winter and wore reed hats when working in the summer, bent over in the fields. Life was short, so old peasant women, wrinkled with age and hobbling still on bound feet, were comparatively rare. Many had never seen a motorcar or an aeroplane or even electric lighting. In much of the countryside warlords and landlords still ruled with feudal powers.r />
  Life in the cities was no better for the poor, even for those with jobs. ‘In Shanghai,’ wrote an American journalist out there, ‘collecting the lifeless bodies of child labourers at factory gates in the morning is a routine affair.’ The poor were also oppressed by greedy tax-collectors and bureaucrats. In Harbin, the traditional beggar cry was ‘Give! Give! May you become rich! May you become an official!’ Sometimes the cry changed to: ‘May you become rich! May you become a general!’ Their fatalism was so inherent that real social change was beyond imagination. The revolution of 1911 which had marked the collapse of the Qing dynasty and brought in Dr Sun Yat-sen’s republic was middle class and urban. So at first was Chinese nationalism, aroused by the flagrant designs of Japan to exploit the country’s weakness.

  Wang Ching-wei, who briefly became leader of the Kuomintang after the death of Sun Yat-sen in 1924, was the chief rival of the rising general Chiang Kai-shek. Chiang, proud and slightly paranoid, was deeply ambitious and determined to become the great Chinese leader. A slim, bald man with a neat little military moustache, he was a highly skilled political operator, but he was not always a good commander-in-chief. He had been commandant of the Whampoa Military Academy and his favoured students were appointed to key commands. Yet because of rivalries and factional infighting within the National Revolutionary Army and between allied warlords, Chiang tried to control his formations from afar, often provoking confusion and delay as a result.

  In 1932, the year after the Mukden Incident and the Japanese seizure of Manchuria, the Japanese moved marine detachments into their concession in Shanghai with conspicuous belligerence. Chiang foresaw a far worse onslaught to come and began to prepare. General Hans von Seeckt, the former commander-in-chief of the Reichswehr during the Weimar Republic, who arrived in May 1933, advised on how to modernize and professionalize the Nationalist armies. Seeckt and his successor, General Alexander von Falkenhausen, advocated a drawn-out war of attrition as the only hope against the better-trained Imperial Japanese Army. With little foreign exchange available, Chiang decided to trade Chinese tungsten for German weapons.

  Chiang Kai-shek was a tireless modernizer and at this time inspired by genuine idealism. During what was known as the Nanking decade (1928– 37), he presided over a rapid programme of industrialization, roadbuilding, military modernization and improvements to agriculture. He also sought to end the psychological and diplomatic isolation of China. Yet, being well aware of China’s military weakness, he was determined to avoid a war with Japan for as long as possible.

  In 1935, Stalin, through the Comintern, instructed the Chinese Communists to create a common front with the Nationalists against the Japanese threat. It was a policy which Mao Tse-tung in particular hardly welcomed after Chiang’s attacks on Communist forces which had forced him to embark in October 1934 on the Long March to avoid the destruction of his Red Army. In fact Mao, a large man with a curiously high-pitched voice, was viewed as a dissident by the Kremlin, because he saw that the interests of Stalin and those of the Chinese Communist Party were not the same. He believed along Leninist lines that war prepared the ground for a revolutionary seizure of power.

  Moscow, on the other hand, did not want a war in the Far East. The interests of the Soviet Union were seen as far more important than a long-term victory for the Chinese Communists. The Comintern therefore accused Mao of lacking an ‘internationalist perspective’. And Mao came close to heresy by arguing that Marxist-Leninist principles of the primacy of the urban proletariat were unsuitable in China, where the peasantry must form the vanguard of the revolution. He advocated independent guerrilla warfare, and the development of networks behind the Japanese lines.

  Chiang sent representatives to meet the Communists. He wanted them to incorporate their forces within the Kuomintang army. In return they would have their own region in the north and he would cease attacking them. Mao suspected that Chiang’s policy was to push them into an area where they would be destroyed by the Japanese attacking from Manchuria. Chiang, however, knew that the Communists would never compromise or work with any other party in the long term. Their only interest was in achieving total power for themselves. ‘The Communists are a disease of the heart,’ he once said. ‘The Japanese a disease of the skin.’

  While trying to deal with the Communists in southern and central China, Chiang could do little to stem Japanese incursions and provocations in the north-east. The Kwantung Army of Manchukuo argued with Tokyo, claiming that this was no time to compromise with China. Its chief of staff, Lieutenant General Tj Hideki, the future prime minister, stated that preparing for war with the Soviet Union without destroying the ‘menace to our rear’ in the form of the Nanking government was ‘asking for trouble’.

  At the same time, Chiang Kai-shek’s policy of caution toward Japanese aggression produced widespread popular anger and student demonstrations in the capital. In late 1936, Japanese forces advanced into Suiyuan province on the Mongolian border, intent on seizing the coal mines and iron-ore deposits in the region. Nationalist forces counter-attacked and forced them out. This strengthened Chiang’s position, and his conditions for a united front with the Communists became tougher. The Communists with the North-Western Alliance of warlords, attacked Nationalist units in the rear. Chiang wanted to suppress the Communists completely while negotiations with them still continued. But at the beginning of December he flew to Sian for discussions with two Nationalist army commanders who wanted a strong line against Japan and an end to the civil war with the Communists. They seized him and detained him for two weeks until he agreed to their terms. The Communists demanded that Chiang Kai-shek should be arraigned before a people’s tribunal.

  Chiang was released and returned to Nanking, having been forced to change his policy. There was genuine national rejoicing at the prospect of anti-Japanese unity. And on 16 December, Stalin, deeply alarmed by the Anti-Comintern Pact between Nazi Germany and Japan, put pressure on Mao and Chou En-lai, his subtle and more diplomatic colleague, to join a united front with the Nationalists. The Soviet leader feared that if the Chinese Communists made trouble in the north, then Chiang Kai-shek might form an alliance with the Japanese against them. And if Chiang was removed, then Wang Ching-wei, who did not want to fight the Japanese, might take over leadership of the Kuomintang. Stalin encouraged the Nationalists to believe that he might well side with them in a war against Japan, purely to make sure that they resisted. And he continued to dangle that carrot without any intention of committing the Soviet Union to war.

  An agreement between the Kuomintang and the Communists had still not been signed when the clash between Chinese and Japanese troops took place at the Marco Polo Bridge south-west of Peking on 7 July 1937. This incident marked the start of the main phase of the Sino-Japanese War. The whole incident was a black farce which demonstrates the terrifying unpredictability of events at a time of tension. A single Japanese soldier had become lost during a night exercise. His company commander demanded entry to the town of Wanping to search for him. When this was refused, he attacked it and the Chinese troops fought back, while the lost soldier found his own way back to barracks. An added irony was that the general staff in Tokyo were at last attempting to control their fanatical officers in China who were responsible for the provocations, while Chiang was now under strong pressure from his side not to compromise any more.

  The generalissimo was uncertain about Japanese intentions and called a conference of Chinese leaders. At first, the Japanese military were themselves divided. Their Kwantung Army in Manchuria wanted to widen the conflict, while the general staff in Tokyo feared a reaction by the Red Army along the northern frontiers. There had been a clash on the Amur River just over a week before. Soon afterwards, however, the Japanese chiefs of staff decided on an all-out war. They believed that China could be knocked out rapidly before a wider conflict developed, either with the Soviet Union or with the western powers. Like Hitler with the Soviet Union later, Japanese generals made a grave error in gr
ossly underestimating outrage among Chinese and their determination to resist. And it did not occur to them that China’s answering strategy would be to wage a drawn-out war of attrition.

  Chiang Kai-shek, well aware of his own army’s deficiencies and the unpredictability of his allies in the north, knew the immense risks that war with Japan entailed. But he had little choice. The Japanese issued and repeated an ultimatum, which the Nanking government rejected, and on 26 July their army attacked. Peking fell three days later. Nationalist forces and their allies fell back, offering only sporadic resistance as the Japanese advanced southwards.

  ‘Suddenly, the war was upon us,’ wrote Agnes Smedley, who landed by junk on the north bank of the Yellow River at the ‘rambling mud town of Fenglingtohkow. This little town, in which we hoped to find lodgings for the night, was a mass of soldiers, civilians, carts, mules, horses and street vendors. As we walked up the mud paths towards the town, we saw on either side long rows of wounded soldiers lying on the earth. There were hundreds of them swathed in dirty, bloody bandages, and some were unconscious… There were no doctors, nurses or attendants with them.’

  Despite all of Chiang’s efforts to modernize Nationalist forces, they, like those of his warlord allies, were not nearly as well trained or as well equipped as the Japanese divisions they faced. The infantry wore blue-grey cotton uniforms in summer, and in winter the luckier ones had padded quilt cotton jackets or the sheepskin coats of Mongolian troops. Their footwear consisted of cloth shoes or straw sandals. Although silent in their shuffling run, they provided no protection against the sharp bamboo pungi stakes, tipped with excrement to cause blood poisoning, which the Japanese used to defend their positions.