by Emily Hahn
Without Chiang’s insistence on the final aim—his pigheadedness, as many of his colleagues considered it—the entire project of the revolution began to come unstuck. While he drank tea with the Soongs in Kamakura the situation at home became acutely dangerous. The remnants of the Communist army that had been dispersed in Kiangsi pulled themselves together and marched on Canton. They occupied a couple of towns and fought the Kuomintang troops sporadically. While Chiang and his wife enjoyed the magnificent scenery at Mokanshan, hitherto dormant war lords of the South woke up and saw their chance to raise a little hell in the good old way and joyfully seized it. Deterioration of the expedition not only set in, it galloped along. One hesitates to talk too glibly about “the people” and their opinions because most of “the people” didn’t yet know enough about the situation to have opinions, but those who did know began to ask for a strong leader again. Under Chiang’s command, things had not reached this pitch of disorder. Why was he out?
The Central Executive Committee itself began to ask questions, to which it was all too easy to find the answers. They already knew why Chiang was out: they knew he was in Shanghai, living as a private individual. They knew what they had to do. It was time, again, for them to forget old grudges, but was Chiang willing to be equally forgetful? Wang Ching-wei went to Shanghai to find out and had several interviews with his old friend and enemy. The errand must have been deeply distasteful, but it had been proved that he himself was not big enough for the job. It was settled that Chiang would return, given certain agreements as to future procedure in the C.E.C. General meetings were held, Wang Ching-wei duly resigned from his post as Chairman, and Chiang resumed the office. A few weeks later Wang sailed for France.
Chiang promptly announced that diplomatic relations between China and Russia no longer existed. Soviet consulates were closed down and all Russians who still remained in China were expelled. In Canton, where there was a large concentration of Communists who had gone there from Hankow and Hunan, the news stimulated the people to rise up and create a riot, now known to the C.C.P. as “the Canton Commune.” For four days, from eleventh to the fourteenth, the troubled and troublesome city was given over to arson and terror, until Nationalist troops arrived and put down the Commune, with all the customary bloody accompaniments of a purge, including public executions.
The end of the sans-Chiang interim was marked by a telegram sent to the General on January 2, 1928, formally requesting him to return to Nanking and resume both his offices, that of Chairman of the C.E.C. and commander-in-chief of the Northern Punitive Expedition. On January 4 the reinstated Generalissimo answered the call. Twice on the journey up there were frustrated attempts to wreck his train, but his welcome to Nanking was an ovation.
One of the things that Chiang and Wang had agreed on was a meeting of the Central Executive and Supervisory Committee of the Kuomintang during the Fourth Plenary Session, which was to be held as soon as possible after his reinstatement. This conference now took place, and an important detail, hitherto neglected, was attended to. Though the Communists had been first resisted and then purged, many of them were still official members of the Kuomintang. Now all the acknowledged Reds were expelled, and Chiang turned to the matter of the expedition.
Until August of the same year, 1928, he was to have dictatorial powers, it being presumed that the expedition would have achieved its goal by that time. Among other statements of his intentions, the Generalissimo announced that as soon as it was over he hoped to call a National People’s Convention. He recapitulated the program as Sun Yat-sen had outlined it—the stage of military supervision, the stage of political tutelage, and the final, long-awaited stage of constitutional government.
The meeting closed on February 7. Two days later Chiang went up to inspect his army at its most advanced point, which at the moment was Hsuchow. The Generalissimo reorganized his command, naming himself leader of the First Army Group. Immediately under him were General Feng Yu-hsiang heading the Second Army (Yes, Feng. I repeat, the Chinese system is adaptable.), Yen Hsi-shan, able and popular war lord of Shansi, as head of the Third, and Li Tsung-jen commanding the Fourth, to be held in reserve.
In March, Chiang returned to Shanghai to inspect the Lunghua garrison and gave them a sharp warning to behave themselves and maintain good terms with the foreigners beyond the concession border. “The environment of Shanghai is so bad,” he said, “that almost any army stationed here for three months, or at most for half a year, becomes demoralized and practically useless.” Then he went back to Nanking and arrested a few more men accused of having contributed to the 1927 disorder. Finally, he sent a message to the powers that during the approaching campaign there would be no repetition of that outrage; foreign residents, who had been growing apprehensive at his preparations, were glad to hear it. In return the Generalissimo requested the foreign authorities to prevent their nationals selling arms to his northern enemies, or otherwise aiding them. The question of armaments was an old grievance, and we cannot claim truthfully that Chiang’s polite request got any more attention this time than similar ones had on other occasions.
Yet another Western importation occupied some of Chiang’s busy moments. He had not forgotten his promise to Mrs. Soong in Kamakura. Under his wife’s eager surveillance he took time out every day to read the Bible. Apparently Madame was a little too eager for him. One day she telegraphed from Nanking to the Reverend Kiang in Shanghai, another old family friend in the Church, asking him to come up immediately. When he arrived she explained that she thought her husband was just about ready to become a Christian; she wanted the pastor to talk to him about it and, if possible, baptize him then and there. Chiang, however, would not be free until that afternoon at four—“and even then there were so many distractions that Madame suggested we might go out for a ride as we talked.” This was done; a solemn little cavalcade of three cars set out, with bodyguards riding ahead and more bodyguards behind. Kiang sat between the Chiangs, and they talked about Christianity. Madame urged her husband to be baptized, reminding him that the pastor was soon going to America for a journey of some months. The Generalissimo, however, would not be rushed into anything ahead of himself.
“I have just finished reading the New Testament for the second time,” he said, “and am now going to begin to read the Old Testament. I want to learn more about this Christian faith before I publicly accept Jesus Christ as my Savior.”
7 JAPAN MOVES IN 1927–32
The Northern Punitive Expedition started its second phase on April 7, 1928. The new plan of attack called for three main prongs of the Nationalist Army, approaching from different directions. Feng Yu-hsiang led his troops from Honan, where he was based: Yen Hsi-shan closed in from his province of Shansi, while Chiang brought the main army along the Tientsin-Pukow Railway. Within little more than a week Chiang’s command was again in Shantung, and another ten days brought them to Tsinan, the turning point of his earlier attempt. Here the Generalissimo expected to run into more trouble, and he was not disappointed.
Tsinan was full of alert Japanese troops. Chiang ordered his men not to even attempt to enter the city, but to by-pass it along the railroad. The Japanese, however, were straddling the railway and had no intention of permitting a detour. According to one of the stories, a Nationalist officer ignored the orders, or didn’t get them, and deliberately tried to get into the city. In any case the result could scarcely have been avoided because the Japanese were definitely looking for a fight. Suddenly it flared up. There was firing from heavy Jap artillery. During the next few days the Chinese of the city suffered: seventeen civilians were tortured and murdered by Japanese.
Chiang was facing a problem that was to haunt his life for years. Was a struggle with outside forces of more immediate importance than the taming of dissidents within the nation? He decided it was not. There could be no question at that moment of taking on Japan. He was not ready: it simply could not be done. While the troops waited, stranded in the road to Peking, the high
er-ups of both sides talked and haggled.
Already the Old Marshal had sent a circular telegram offering to withdraw into Manchuria. This setback for the Nationalists persuaded him to reconsider, but as the other two armies drew closer and closer he was bound to think yet again and then retreat. He soon did so, all the faster because the Japanese abruptly changed their tactics and advised him to go. His alliance with them was showing signs of strain. A fretful point at issue had to do with the two north-of-the-Wall railways, Chinese Eastern and South Manchurian. That these roads, though running across Chinese territory, were controlled by Russia and Japan had long irritated Chang Tso-lin. He had lately set in motion a conspiracy to shake loose all foreign control of the railways, and the Japanese were aware of the plot.
Yet, though the Old Marshal was retreating and Peking would soon be free of his men, Chiang Kai-shek’s army was still kept stranded at Tsinan. Finally Chiang accepted the fact that his could not be the personal glory of entering Peking at the head of the expedition. He wasn’t a glutton for personal glory anyway. He named Yen Hsi-shan as his deputy. Yen accordingly made ready for the last triumphant sprint when exciting news arrived: Chang Tso-lin had been assassinated.
The Old Marshal was beating his retreat on a branch line of the South Manchurian Railway: his train, passing under a bridge near Mukden, was blown up by a mine, and he died almost immediately. It couldn’t be proved that the Japanese were responsible, but among the Old Marshal’s friends there has never been any doubt on the question. Not long afterward Chang Tso-lin’s son Chang Hsueh-liang, the Young Marshal, caused the chief suspect to be killed.
The Young Marshal stepped into his father’s shoes with a rapidity that astonished the Japanese and postponed their plans. His sudden accession to power was of great importance to Chiang Kai-shek. It seemed to this youth (he was not yet thirty) that China ought to be united, and he had no objections to Chiang as the leader of the nation. In fact his admiration of the Generalissimo was high. Within the month after Chang Tso-lin’s death the Young Marshal declared his intention of withdrawing his army to Manchuria, following his father’s program, and he urged the other, minor, Manchurian war lords to do likewise. His zone of influence henceforth, he said, would be limited to Manchuria and Jehol.
For the Nationalists it was now merely a matter of getting there as fast as they—or at least some of them—could march. On July 5, 1928, Yen Hsi-shan entered the northern capital with his men. Chiang Kai-shek came afterward, alone: he had left his stranded troops, doubled on his tracks, and come in by way of Yen’s trail.
The timetable had served; the expedition was over before the first of August, as he had said it would be. Now, according to the agreement, he tendered his resignation. With due regard for decorum the Party refused to accept it. Instead the Generalissimo was “commanded” to visit the tomb of Sun Yat-sen in the Western Hills, in company with his generals, and render an account of his accomplishments to the dead Master. It was a simple, impressive ceremony. Chiang wept as he stood before the shrine.
Peking was a symbol of the Manchu past, and the revolutionaries hated it for that reason. Besides, the position was not central; it was suitable only for a government of North China. They decided that the national capital should be moved to Nanking. Nanking too had an ancient history as a Chinese capital, more ancient, actually, than Peking’s, but there was a good deal of opposition to the change. The scholars didn’t want it, the northerners didn’t want it, and members of the foreign legations howled miserably. They loved the northern city with its shops and restaurants and traditions, and they pointed out that Nanking couldn’t compare with Peking in beauty. But the beauty that appeals to Europeans is not always to Chinese taste. The Nationalists assured themselves that they would build a better capital in Nanking than had ever been seen before. Western persistence in looking upon them as charming fossils irritated the modern-minded. They changed the name of Peking to Peiping, “Northern Peace.” (However, to simplify things through the ensuing seesaw of events I shall continue to call it Peking.)
There were other pressing problems. First of all came demobilization of the very costly armies, which the Kuomintang couldn’t seem to get under way. Other governments have run into difficulties on that score, but Chiang’s troubles were peculiar to China. His was no simple homogeneous collection of men, drafted from their homes to serve in the fighting and happy to be released: it was a combination of professional armies, made up of men who had never been anything but soldiers and had no desire to assume the responsibilities of civilian life. Even if one disregarded their preferences—and in those days one usually did—their leaders had to be taken into account. Like the mercenaries they commanded, the generals intended to carry on as generals. It was all the career they knew. More than two million men were on the military pay roll in June 1928. T. V. Soong, the Minister of Finance, believed in keeping the books straight, and he protested that this expense was wildly disproportionate. Obediently the Committee passed resolutions and made sensible plans: the standing army, they said, must certainly be cut to 715,000. But when it came to deciding whose men should be disbanded the Committee ran into trouble, and there they stayed for months to come.
Then there was another vexing question, that of the mechanics of government. In the first days of peace Chiang Kai-shek proved himself a good manager of men. The quarrelsome youth who was always flouncing off from Sun Yat-sen’s neighborhood had grown up into a quieter man. He had Hu Han-min at his side, and their relations were cordial. Authority brought balance, and in those early days Chiang’s popularity seemed assured. But very soon that authority was suspected, questioned, and at length attacked.
The first bitter quarrel occurred when Chiang attempted to do away with the political subcouncils in Canton and Hankow. He argued that a united China didn’t need more than one central federal government office. These small councils were hang-overs from prewar days, but since then the respective governors of the two provinces, Pai Chung-hsi and Li Tsung-jen, had become attached to their status, and they resented Chiang’s attempt to take away their power. They said he was getting too big for his boots; they used the word “dictator,” a term which was rapidly becoming a coin of ordinary verbal currency in the world.
One of the fundamental hopes Sun Yat-sen had imparted to his disciples was that of a national constitution. For nearly two decades this hope had waned, flared, and waned again. Sun’s own suggested constitution, what with being cobbled and rewritten and finally flung out of Peking, was out of the question; anyway the Chinese had become wiser, and they could see it wasn’t simply a matter of writing down laws. Once again, therefore, while a new constitution was being drafted, they resolved on a period of readjustment and education for the people. Five years—1930 to 1935—of “political tutelage” were to transform China into a genuine voting republic. In the meantime the country was to be controlled by a government of five “yuans” or committees: Executive, Legislative, Control, Judicial, and Examination. High officials of these yuans were to be members of the State Council, or Cabinet, headed by its President. Chiang Kai-shek himself was the first President, and he was careful to see that the Council should include Yen Hsi-shan as Minister of the Interior, and Feng Yu-hsiang as Minister of War. He knew that the secret of handling war lords is to keep them happy if possible but, above all, to keep them in view.
Nanking hummed with activity that might have been contented if it hadn’t been for disgruntled souls pointing out that it wasn’t the right kind of activity. No strides in demobilization were made, though the months went by. Still pepped up with revolutionary spirit, people didn’t realize how long it takes to do these things tactfully, and tact was of the essence when it came to dealing with generals.
However, such disadvantages were temporarily offset by the charming behavior of the Young Marshal of Manchuria, who was determined to stand by his decision and support the Generalissimo and the new unified China. He had considerable resources and his aid was enormo
usly valuable. He came to Nanking in time for the important celebrations of October 10, the Double Tenth: he too was appointed to the State Council. Soon the Kuomintang flag fluttered cheerfully in the breeze over Mukden, and the fashion spread throughout Manchuria.
It was a happy, creative time for Chiang Kai-shek. Carpers might point out with justice that unity hadn’t really been achieved: the government was full of potential traitors, and great tracts of the land weren’t assimilated—the inhabitants of these provinces, indeed, had never heard of most of the goings on in Nanking. But it was the nearest thing to unity that anyone within some centuries had seen in all his great country, and Chiang had reason to feel proud. He was full of energy, and though he was overworked it was work that he loved. There was time now for a widening of interests. There was this matter of Nanking, the capital, which he had promised himself must be rebuilt in a fitting style, the most beautiful, inspiring, modern yet dignified capital city in the world. He had been rather offended by the scorn exhibited by foreigners when his government insisted upon leaving Peking; he was determined to show them that China was something better than a museum, and could build new glories as well as molder away among walls erected by the people’s ancestors. Like a lot of other Chinese, Chiang resented the implication that their living world was necessarily a comedown from the past.