Red Sorghum

by Mo Yan

  ‘Fellow villagers . . .’ His voice was hoarse and gravelly. ‘I brought death and destruction down on the entire village. . . .’

  They began to sob, and crystalline tears welled up even in Blind Eye’s hollow sockets.

  ‘What now, Commander Yu?’ Guo Yang asked through blackened teeth as he got to his feet with the aid of crutches.

  ‘Will the Japs be back, Commander Yu?’ Wang Guang asked.

  ‘Are you going to help us get away from here, Commander Yu?’ the sobbing woman Liu asked.

  ‘Get away?’ Blind Eye said. ‘To where? The rest of you can run if you want to, but if I’m going to die it’ll be right here.’

  He sat down, hugged his battered zither to his chest, and began to pluck it, his mouth twisting, his cheeks twitching, his head swaying.

  ‘Fellow villagers, we can’t run away,’ Granddad said. ‘Not after so many men have died. The Japs’ll be back, so, while there’s time, gather up the weapons and ammunition from the bodies. We’ll take the Japs on until either the fish die or the net breaks!’

  They fanned out in the field, stripping the bodies of weapons and ammunition, making trip after trip with their booty to the village side of the wall. Guo Yang, on his crutches, and the woman Liu, with her ulcerated legs, worked the nearby corpses, while Blind Eye sat beside the growing pile of weapons and ammunition, cocking his ear to pick up any sounds, like a good sentry.

  At midmorning they assembled at the wall to watch Granddad take an inventory of the arsenal. Since the battle had lasted till dark, the Japs had been unable to make a final sweep of the battlefield, much to Granddad’s advantage.

  They had picked up seventeen Japanese ‘38’ repeater rifles and thirty-four leather pouches, with a total of 1,007 copper-jacketed cartridges. There were twenty-four Chinese copies of the Czech ‘79’ rifle and twenty-four bandoliers with 412 cartridges. They brought back fifty-seven Japanese petal-shaped muskmelon grenades and forty-three Chinese grenades with wooden handles. There was also a Japanese ‘tortoiseshell’ pistol with thirty-nine cartridges, one Luger and seven bullets, nine Japanese sabres, and seven carbines with over two hundred rounds of ammo.

  The inventory completed, Granddad asked Guo Yang for his pipe, which he lit and began puffing as he sat on the wall.

  ‘Dad, can we form our own army?’ Father asked.

  Granddad looked at the pile of weapons and kept silent. When he’d finished his pipe he said, ‘It’s time to choose, my sons, one weapon apiece.’

  He picked up the pistol in the tortoiseshell holster and fastened it around his waist. He also picked out a ‘38’ repeater rifle with a fixed bayonet. Father grabbed the Luger. Wang Guang and Dezhi each chose a Japanese carbine.

  ‘Give the Luger to Uncle Guo,’ Granddad said.

  Stung by the order, Father grumbled.

  ‘I want you to use a carbine,’ Granddad said. ‘A gun like that’s no good in battle.’

  ‘I’ll take a carbine, too,’ Guo Yang said. ‘Give the Luger to Blind Eye.’

  ‘Make us something to eat,’ Granddad said to the woman Liu. ‘The Japs’ll be back soon.’

  Father picked up a ‘38’ repeater rifle and noisily worked the bolt back and forth.

  ‘Be careful,’ Granddad cautioned him. ‘It might go off.’

  ‘I know. Don’t worry.’

  ‘They’re coming, Commander,’ Blind Eye said softly. ‘I hear them.’

  ‘Get down,’ Granddad ordered. ‘Hurry!’

  They crouched down among the white wax reeds on the inside slope of the wall, keeping their eyes riveted on the sorghum field beyond the ditch. All except Blind Eye, who was still sitting alongside the pile of weapons, rocking his head as he plucked his zither.

  ‘You get down here, too!’ Granddad ordered him.

  Blind Eye’s face twitched painfully and his lips quivered. The same tune emerged over and over from his battered zither, like raindrops in a tin bucket.

  What appeared on the other side of the ditch was not human figures, but hundreds of dogs emerging from the sorghum field and rushing headlong toward the scattered corpses, hugging the ground. Fur of every imaginable colour pulsated in the sunlight. Leading the pack were the three dogs from our family.

  My father, always one to squirm, was getting impatient. He aimed at the pack of dogs and fired. The bullet whizzed over their heads and tore into the sorghum stalks.

  Wang Guang and Dezhi, holding real rifles for the first time in their lives, aimed at the swaying sorghum and fired. Their bullets either tore aimlessly through the sky or smacked wildly into the ground.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Granddad barked angrily. ‘This ammo isn’t for you kids to play with!’ He kicked Father’s upturned rump.

  The movement deep in the sorghum field gradually subsided, and a mighty shout rent the air: ‘Hold your fire – whose troops are you –’

  ‘Your old ancestors’ troops!’ Granddad shouted back. ‘You damned yellow-skinned dogs!’

  He aimed his ‘38’ and fired a round in the direction of the shout.

  ‘Comrades – we’re the Jiao-Gao regiment – anti-Japanese troops!’ the man in the sorghum field yelled. ‘Tell me, whose troops are you?’

  ‘Damn them!’ Granddad cursed. ‘All they know how to do is shout!’

  The eighty soldiers of the Jiao-Gao regiment emerged from the sorghum field in a crouch. Their uniforms were in tatters, their faces sallow; they looked like wild animals terrified by the sight of guns. For the most part they were unarmed, except for a couple of wooden-handled grenades hanging at their belts. The squad up front carried old Hanyang rifles; a few of the others had muskets.

  The previous afternoon, Father had seen this group of men hiding deep in the sorghum field and sniping at the Japs who were attacking the village.

  The troops made their way up to the wall, where a tall fellow, apparently an officer, said, ‘Squad One up to the hill for sentry duty! The rest of you can take a break.’

  As the Jiao-Gao soldiers broke ranks and sat on the wall, a handsome young man stepped forward, took a piece of yellow paper from his knapsack, and began teaching the men a song: ‘The wind is howling’ – he began – ‘The wind is the wind is the wind is the wind is howling’ – the troops followed – ‘watch me, sing together – The horses are neighing – The Yellow River is roaring the Yellow River is roaring the Yellow River is roaring the Yellow River is roaring – In Henan and Hebei the sorghum is ripe the sorghum is ripe – The fighting spirit of heroes in the green curtain is high the fighting spirit of anti-Japanese resistance heroes in the green curtain is high – Raise your muskets and cannon your muskets and cannon wield your sabres and your spears your sabres and your spears defend your homes defend North China defend the country –’

  Oh, how Father envied the youthful expressions on the weathered faces of the Jiao-Gao soldiers, and as he listened to them sing, his throat began to itch. All of a sudden he recalled the handsome young Adjutant Ren and the way he’d led the singing.

  He, Wang Guang, and Dezhi picked up their rifles and walked up to enjoy the singing of the Jiao-Gao soldiers, who envied them their new Japanese ‘38’ rifles and carbines.

  The man in command of the Jiao-Gao regiment was named Jiang. He had such small feet they called him Little Foot Jiang. He walked up to Granddad, a boy of sixteen or seventeen at his side. He had a pistol stuck in his belt and was wearing a khaki cap with two black buttons. His teeth were pearly white. In heavily accented Beijing dialect, he said, ‘Commander Yu, you’re a hero! We witnessed your battle with the Japs yesterday!’

  He stuck out his hand, but Granddad just gave him a cold stare and snorted contemptuously.

  The embarrassed Commander Jiang pulled back his hand, smiled, and continued: ‘I’ve been asked by the special committee of the Binhai area to talk to you. They’re so impressed with your fervent nationalism and heroic spirit of self-sacrifice in this great war of national survival that they have ordered me to propose tha
t we join forces in a coordinated move to resist the Japanese. . . .’

  ‘Horseshit!’ Granddad interrupted him. ‘I don’t believe a word of it. Join forces, you say? Where were you when we fought the Jap armoured troops? Where were you when they surrounded the village? My troops were wiped out, their blood forming a river across the land, and you come here talking about joining forces!’

  He angrily kicked the yellow casing of a spent cartridge into the ditch. Blind Eye was still plucking his zither, the sound of raindrops in a tin bucket.

  Jiang would not be put off, no matter how awkward Granddad’s harangue made him feel. ‘Commander Yu, please don’t disappoint us. And don’t underestimate our strength.’

  ‘Let’s open the skylight and let the sun shine in,’ Granddad said. ‘Just what do you have in mind?’

  ‘We want you to join the Jiao-Gao regiment.’

  ‘In other words, take orders from you,’ Granddad sneered.

  ‘You, sir, can be part of the regimental leadership.’

  ‘My title?’

  ‘Deputy regiment commander!’

  ‘Taking orders from you?’

  ‘We all take orders from the Binhai-area special committee.’

  ‘I don’t take orders from anybody!’

  ‘Commander Yu, as the saying goes, “A great man understands the times, a smart bird chooses the tree where it roosts, and a clever man chooses the leader he’ll follow.” Don’t pass up this chance!’

  ‘Are you finished?’

  Jiang laughed openly. ‘Commander Yu,’ he said, ‘you’re no fool. Look at my troops. They’re hot-blooded young men, but empty-handed for the most part. The weapons and ammo you’ve got here . . .’

  ‘Don’t even think it!’

  ‘We just want to borrow some. We’ll give them back as soon as you’ve formed your own army.’

  ‘Pah! Do you think Yu Zhan’ao’s a three-year-old child?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Commander Yu. Where the fate of the nation is concerned, all people share responsibility. In this war of resistance against Japan, you contribute what you can – men for some, weapons for others. It would be a national disgrace to let those weapons and all that ammo lie there unused.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough! Don’t expect me to piss in your bottle. If you had any balls, you’d find your weapons in the hands of the Japanese!’

  ‘We fought them yesterday!’

  ‘And how many strings of firecrackers did you set off?’ Granddad asked sarcastically.

  ‘Not firecrackers – bullets and hand grenades. And we lost six of our comrades. We deserve at least half the weapons!’

  ‘I lost all my men at the bridgehead over the Black Water River, for one ancient machine gun!’

  ‘It was Pocky Leng’s troops who took everything else!’

  ‘And I suppose the eyes of Little Foot Jiang’s troops don’t light up just as bright when they see weapons? Well, this is one man you’re not going to sucker!’

  ‘I advise you to be careful, Commander Yu,’ Jiang warned Granddad. ‘My patience has limits.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ Granddad asked stiffly, resting his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  Commander Jiang’s look of anger quickly gave way to a smile. ‘You’ve got me all wrong, Commander Yu. We’d never steal food from a friend’s bowl. Just because we can’t make a deal doesn’t mean we’re not on the same side.’

  He turned to his troops and said, ‘Clean up the battlefield. Bury our fellow villagers, and don’t forget to pick up all the spent cartridge casings.’

  The troops fanned out across the battlefield to search for cartridge casings. While they were burying the bodies, a battle between crazed dogs and the surviving humans resulted in the dismemberment of many of the corpses.

  ‘We’re in a terrible fix, Commander Yu,’ Jiang said. ‘We have no weapons or ammunition, and five out of every ten casings we take back to the munitions plant for recasting come out as duds. We’re caught between Pocky Leng, who squeezes us, and the puppet troops, who slaughter us, so you have to give us some of the weapons you’ve got here. Don’t treat the Jiao-Gao regiment with contempt.’

  Granddad looked at the troops carrying the dead back and forth near the sorghum field and said, ‘You can have the sabres, and the “79” carbines, and the wooden-handled grenades.’

  Jiang grabbed Granddad’s hand and exclaimed, ‘Commander Yu, you’re a true friend. . . . We make our own wooden-handled grenades, so how about this: you keep the grenades and give us some “38” rifles instead.’

  ‘No,’ Granddad said tersely.

  ‘Just five.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Three, then. How’s that? Just three.’

  ‘I said no!’

  ‘Okay, two. You can part with at least two, can’t you?’

  ‘Shit!’ Granddad grumbled. ‘You’re like a damned livestock auctioneer.’

  ‘Squad One, get over here to pick up the weapons.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Granddad said. ‘Stand over there.’

  He personally handed out the twenty-four Czech ‘79’ rifles and the canvas cartridge belts, then hesitated for a moment before tossing in a ‘38’ repeater rifle.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘And we keep the sabres.’

  ‘Commander Yu,’ Jiang complained, ‘you agreed to give us two “38” rifles.’

  ‘If I hear another word from you,’ Granddad said testily, ‘you won’t even get one!’

  ‘Okay,’ Jiang said, throwing his hands up in front of him. ‘Don’t get mad!’

  The Jiao-Gao soldiers who were given weapons grinned from ear to ear. One or two members of the burial detail stumbled upon additional weapons, and they also picked up the automatic pistol Granddad had tossed away and Father’s discarded Browning. Their pockets bulged with spent cartridge casings.

  ‘Comrades,’ Jiang said, ‘hurry up and get those bodies buried. We have to withdraw before the Japs come back for their dead.’

  As the Jiao-Gao regiment was falling in beside the wall, a couple of dozen bicycles came flying down the road from the eastern tip of the village. Wheels glistened, spokes flashed. Commander Jiang barked out an order and the soldiers hit the ground, as the riders pedalled unsteadily up to Granddad.

  It was Detachment Leader Leng’s mobile platoon, a crack group of riders armed with pistols. Dressed in neat grey uniforms, with leggings and cloth shoes, they were quite a sight. Pocky Leng was known as a first-rate cyclist who could ride on a single railway track for a mile and a half. Commander Jiang shouted another order, and the Jiao-Gao troops emerged from their hiding places among the trees, quickly forming up ranks behind Granddad.

  Detachment Leader Leng’s soldiers dismounted and walked their bicycles the rest of the way along the top of the wall. Leng emerged from the crowd, surrounded by bodyguards.

  The mere sight of Pocky Leng was enough to make Granddad reach for his pistol.

  ‘Take it easy, Commander Yu,’ Jiang cautioned him, ‘take it easy.’

  The gloved Detachment Leader Leng, smiling broadly, came up and shook hands with Jiang without taking off his glove. Jiang smiled as he reached inside his pants and brought out a fat, light-brown louse, which he flipped into the ditch.

  ‘Your esteemed unit is still in the thick of things, I see,’ Detachment Leader Leng said to him.

  ‘We’ve been fighting since yesterday afternoon,’ Jiang said.

  ‘Ending in a brilliant victory, I assume?’

  ‘In cooperation with Commander Yu, we killed twenty-six Japanese and thirty-six puppet soldiers, plus four warhorses. Where were the crack guerrilla troops and fierce leaders of your esteemed unit yesterday?’

  ‘We were harassing the town of Pingdu and forcing the Japs to retreat in panic. You could call that the classic “Encircle the Wei to rescue the Zhao” ploy, wouldn’t you say, Commander Jiang?’

  ‘Fuck your old lady, Pocky Leng!’ Granddad growled. ‘Feast your eyes on th
e Zhaos you rescued! All the villagers are right here.’

  He pointed to the blind and crippled men on the wall.

  The pale marks on Pocky Leng’s face reddened. ‘Yesterday afternoon my troops fought at Pingdu till they were bathed in blood, suffering enormous losses. My conscience is clear.’

  ‘Since you and your esteemed troops knew the enemy had surrounded the village, why didn’t you come to the rescue?’ Jiang asked. ‘Why pass up a fight in your own backyard, and travel a hundred li just to harass the town of Pingdu? These aren’t motorcycles your esteemed troops are riding, you know. And even if you were so anxious for some action you had to go off to harass Pingdu, the enemy troops you routed should still be in retreat. But you, Commander, look fit and relaxed, not a speck of dirt on you. I wonder how you set about commanding this great battle.’

  Leng turned red all the way to the roots of his ears. ‘I’m not going to argue with you, Jiang! I know why you’re here, and you know why I’m here.’

  ‘Detachment Leader Leng,’ Jiang said, ‘as I see it, you went about yesterday’s battle at Pingdu all wrong. Now, if I’d been in command of your esteemed unit, instead of coming to break the encirclement of the village I’d have spread the men out in an ambush in the cemetery, using the gravestones as cover. Then I’d have set up the eight machine guns you captured after the ambush at the Black Water River and fired on the Japs when they came down the road. Since they and their horses would be exhausted after fighting all day, and low on ammo in unfamiliar surroundings in the dark, they’d be sitting ducks. They couldn’t possibly get away. That way you’d have performed a great service for the people and made heroes of your soldiers. Your glory would have been added to that of the ambush at the Black Water River, and you’d have a brilliant reputation! What a shame, Detachment Leader Leng, that you missed your chance. Instead of making heroes of your soldiers and serving the people, here you are, trying to gain some little advantage from orphans and widows. Although I’m normally immune to shame, what you have done shames me!’

  All the red-faced Leng could do was stammer: ‘Jiang . . . look down on me. . . . Wait till I fight a major battle, then you’ll see. . . .’