Chiang Kai-Shek

by Emily Hahn

  His report on his mission, when it came out in September, was unwelcome to both the Kuomintang and the Communists. The general had not followed the usual pattern of swinging sharply Left because of his displeasure with the Right, but he spoke plainly and severely nevertheless. He said that the Kuomintang was characterized by “reactionary leadership, repression and corruption,” and that the public had lost faith in it. However, even so, he did not believe that the majority of the people wanted to switch to Communism. The great mass of them were caught between misrule and totalitarianism. Yet moderates who represented this school of thought, he said, were not able to make themselves heard because of National Government repression. Wedemeyer urged that America take the initiative and aid Chiang quickly to stabilize the country. In spite of all the “corruption and incompetence” he said he observed, that would be the way to meet the wishes of the people, of whom “Some have become affiliated with Communism in an indignant protest against oppressive police measures, corrupt practices and maladministration.… Some have lost all hope for China under existing leadership and turn to the Communists in despair. Some accept a new leadership by mere inertia.” But Chiang must mend his ways, or, rather, the ways of his subordinates. It would be no good otherwise. Reform, drastic and immediate, must go into effect.

  Wedemeyer suggested a guardianship over Manchuria of China, Russia, America, Britain, and France, or failing that, a trusteeship established by the U. N. General Assembly. Otherwise, he added rather unnecessarily, “Manchuria may be drawn into the Soviet orbit, despite United States aid, and lost, perhaps permanently, to China.”

  The heartburning to Nanking caused by this report was sharp. Wedemeyer himself later declared that he had joined in too enthusiastically with the popular chorus in Washington. “It hurt, and it hurt deeply,” he said. And there was the added indignity of his recommendation, which by this time had become routine, that aid be withheld if China did not mend her ways forthwith. To no other nation did America ever take quite the same attitude of “either—or,” though others cost her far more in money and material.

  Yet the recommendations would have been followed, if only Chiang had been able to do so. As usual he was held up by the feeling that it was not the time. If he looked too closely at, for instance, Mr. Wang’s behavior and fired him, would not Mr. Wang’s brother-in-law have taken umbrage; and wouldn’t that mean opposition from the entire clique surrounding the Liu clan? Then there would be rebellion in an important section of the Kuomintang, and one thing would lead to another.… It was always not the right time. A little later, he probably told himself, as soon as the constitution was working, when China could truthfully call herself a democracy. That time was close at hand: for what it was worth, China was to have the vote.

  The constitution had already been drawn up, and it went into action in December 1947. In essence it is rather like that of the U.S.A., though there is only one House, the National Assembly, instead of the two at Washington. The members of the Assembly, like the President and Vice-President, serve for a term of six years. The five Yuans were retained from pre-constitution days.

  China’s first general election of the National Assembly was held in November 1947 under the considerable difficulties of all-out civil war. Forty-eight per cent of the members elected were nonpartisan; forty-two were Kuomintang; the remaining ten were members of the “Young China Party” and Social Democrats. Five months later, in April 1948, the electoral college voted in Chiang Kai-shek as President of the nation. He had made the conventional attempt to bow out of the race, but it came to nothing, and everyone would have been amazed if it had succeeded. Li Tsung-jen was elected Vice-President, having run a close race against Sun Fo. There was a lot of talk about the buried hatchet, old enmities forgotten, and so forth, which is not without interest considering how soon the hatchet was to be exhumed.

  That election stands out as the gratification of a national dream. Thirty-seven years on the way, it had arrived just in time for the record.

  15 FLIGHT 1947–49

  Disaster struck first in Manchuria. In one blow after another the Nationalists lost their best-equipped and best-trained men. Before the all-out drive in the autumn, it was already obvious that the moving spirit of dissension, there and in North China, was the Democratic League that claimed to be the gathering place of China’s true liberals. League men stirred up mutiny in the Army, and wherever there was local unrest, especially in Peking, where the students in their usual way had begun again to riot, you found a League member at the bottom of it. Among the American observer team there were red faces at this development, but things had now gone so far that it didn’t matter very much. No detail mattered very much in the path of the inevitable.

  The early months of 1948, with Manchuria obviously slipping out of control, brought added distress to China itself. Inflation had gone so far that the government’s requests to America for another loan now lost all vestige of conviction: the most wildly optimistic banker must have seen that loans would not meet the case. The cities were crowded to choking point with refugees from the North. Nevertheless there was one more American contribution when the Marshall Plan was drawn up in Washington; China must have her share, and an appropriation for economic and military aid, amounting to something under half a billion, was approved in April. But the material included in this agreement did not begin to arrive in China until August, by which time a large part of Chiang’s troops were cut off and under siege in Changchun and Mukden. By the end of October the remnant of this army was on its way out, evacuated through Hulutao. Many were dead; many more had gone over to the Reds. The Manchurian adventure was over, and Chiang, in setting his judgment against Marshall’s, had lost the argument.

  Long before this the rot had spread to North China. Shansi was battling for life, and no one was sure if Yen Hsi-shan would continue to hold out. In Shantung a chief general changed over to the other side, taking his large army with him, and the governor soon followed suit. Peking and Tientsin were next: their general resisted until 1949, but supplies that he had been promised were held up and in his wrath and discouragement he too slipped away.

  The Reds moved on south. Hsuchow in Kiangsu, commanding the Yangtze Valley with Nanking and Shanghai, fell in December.

  The stable of statesmen, generals, and ex-war lords who made up the Kuomintang government began to fall apart. War with Japan had held them together in a fashion that was, after all, highly uncharacteristic; the old way of life had still beckoned as a possibility when victory should have come: they had faced the tiresome lean years with all the philosophy of which they were capable. Under the threat of Communism this spirit evaporated. There would be no future for most of them if the Reds conquered. One or two, like Feng Yu-hsiang, had reason to suppose they had a foot in the door of that future; the rest did not delude themselves. It was not surprising, therefore, that they should begin to look for a compromise. It was the sort of thing they had always done, and managed to survive by doing. Their squabbling over a peace movement was to plague Chiang’s last days on the mainland. We need not take the ins and outs of it too meticulously; no matter what arrangements they made and remade, it came to the same in the end. With Communists, the backsliders were to discover, there was no compromise possible.

  The falling Chinese currency brought matters to a head. After vainly attempting various remedies, Chiang decided to battle the immediate and most pressing evil of inflation, food shortages and hoarding, by putting his son Ching-kuo in charge of the matter. Ching-kuo used his vast powers with promptness and severity, arresting and executing black-market leaders. It was only a temporary stopgap; all price controls soon had to be abandoned. But Ching-kuo had proved himself resourceful, firm, and trustworthy.

  Again Chiang thought of America. Even now it seemed unbelievable to him that Washington would stand by and calmly watch China fall to the Communists. He did not entertain any delusions about the feelings of the American leaders toward himself; he had never believe
d much in their affection, and Marshall made no secret of his opinion. There had been Stilwell, now dead but unforgotten, and all his critics in the Foreign Service. Yet surely, in spite of all this, his early judgment of American mentality could not be so grotesquely wrong: Mayling’s missionary friends must know what the average American thought of Communism. Innocent Americans obviously were, but even the most innocent of nations wouldn’t take a risk like that—or would it?

  Chiang talked it over with the few people he trusted. Somebody ought to go to Washington and present the case more vividly than it could be transmitted through telegraph and the lukewarm American Ambassador. The choice was obvious; though other names were suggested and discarded, it was Madame Chiang who determined at last to shoulder the responsibility. She was doubtful: Chiang’s latest request had been ignored, and her own experience in America had not been so pleasant that she was eager to risk a new test. But there was really no one else so well fitted for the tricky mission. Much against her inclination, she informed Marshall of her intentions.

  The diplomatic procedure of the projected visit as he outlined it sounded an ominous note. The Secretary of State did not invite Chiang’s wife, as she had been invited before, to visit the capital as a guest of the government. He would, of course, be delighted to see her, he said, as his personal guest. When Mayling arrived in Washington, though she wasn’t exactly snubbed, it took rather a long time to get to the President. Nor did he greet with approval, or even with interest, her suggestions that America support Chiang openly against the Communists and supply Nanking with another general and lend a billion dollars’ worth of aid every year for the next three years of the struggle.

  Madame conquered her feelings and stayed on in Washington until it was quite clear that she would not succeed in any of these requests. Truman was polite, at least: the press was not. It was the worst rebuff she had encountered in all her life.

  The end of 1948 bore a zombie resemblance to the old days when Chiang was still struggling on his way up, and seldom saw a month pass by without a denunciatory telegram from South or North. Once more, as in the past, the initiators of the denunciation were Pai Chung-hsi and Li Tsung-jen. Though Pai was now one of Chiang’s most important generals and Li was Vice-President, the old rebellious Kwangsi spirit still survived. This time, plenty of C.E.C. members supported them in their arguments, namely that the President should try to make peace with the Reds and settle down with what was left to him in China.

  Chiang would not agree. As twice before, he decided to resign rather than try to force his own will on a dissident government. The awkward fact that he could not resign so easily, now that he headed a constitutional body without any machinery for resignation, did not deter him: he walked out anyway and left Li Tsung-jen in charge as “Acting President.” Let those who worried about protocol pick up the pieces and make it as legal as they could: he was angry; he would not stay.

  “It isn’t the Communists who have driven me out,” he declared. “It’s the Kuomintang.” And back he went to his Chekiang village. Quietly, he had already made arrangements in Taiwan, setting a new government in order there. As governor he appointed Chen Cheng, his most loyal, honest general, and Chiang Ching-kuo was sent over to head the Kuomintang party. For himself the Generalissimo settled down on his old mountain top and watched events.

  Li Tsung-jen promptly set to work arranging peace talks with the Communist heads.

  He probably expected a settlement along the lines he had always been used to—a good deal of extreme talk on both sides, and then compromise. In his suggested terms there was talk of a neutral zone in which Shanghai would be included, and of course he already had Chiang’s resignation to offer on a silver tray. But Mao had no time nor any use, now, for compromise; his reply was brusque and unequivocal. After the peace war criminals were to be punished, the government armies to be completely reorganized, the land system reformed, all capital confiscated, all “traitorous” treaties repudiated, and complete reorganization of China’s legal system. It did not look as if he would relax any of these demands, but the Peace Party of the Kuomintang had a try, anyway.

  A cease-fire was proclaimed, and Li accepted the Red proposal as a basis for negotiations. In spite of bitter quarreling among the National officials these went forward for a time. (The government prudently shifted from Nanking to Canton early in February.) But there was really no intention on the part of Mao Tse-tung to negotiate an easy peace. Why should he give any quarter at all to these people he had on the run? As a preliminary the Reds announced the names of the so-called war criminals: the Generalissimo with his wife and son headed the list. The forlornly hopeless conference began on the first of April, 1949, in Peking. It did not last long; the Communists wanted everything, and were contemptuously indifferent as to whether or not Li Tsung-jen agreed. They gave the Nationalists an ultimatum: either they accept the Communist terms before April 20 or the Reds would cross the Yangtze and carry on as before.

  Li would have given in, but Pai Chung-hsi finally turned against his ancient comrade and would not assent. It was within the Vice-President’s power to go ahead anyway, but the habit of years proved too strong. He listened to Pai and agreed, however unwillingly, that the war must continue. On April 17, three days before the truce expired, he sent the telegram to Fenghua that Chiang had been awaiting, politely asking him to come out of retirement and take up the burden of fighting once more.

  The Generalissimo, it was reported, had been enjoying his rest and living like a quiet country gentleman, taking walks with Ching-kuo; talking over old times with family friends; refusing to as much as see government officials, let alone discuss affairs of state. According to Tong he made one exception and received a general who was an old friend, who sought to please him by telling him an interesting bit of gossip. Mao Tse-tung, said the general, had declared his willingness to strike Chiang’s name off the list of war criminals. Tong says “the Generalissimo greeted the announcement with stony silence.”

  April 20 arrived before Chiang had made up his mind. The Communists launched an attack on Nanking’s neighborhood from the south bank of the river and crossed over within a few hours of the deadline, cutting in on the south side so that the city was simply isolated. With no slackening of speed they drove on toward Hang-chow and Shanghai. Chiang could wait no longer; he made an appointment to meet Li Tsung-jen at Hangchow, and two days later the meeting took place.

  No one had been hopeful enough to expect a peaceful reconciliation and so no one was disappointed. In spite of the common emergency and the necessity for quick action there was a row, a big one. Li Tsung-jen was irritated because Chiang had stolen several marches on him during his country retreat: the Generalissimo had arranged for the nation’s gold and foreign currency reserve to be carried over to Taipei, the capital of Taiwan, and had also managed to ship a considerable amount of American equipment and war material to the same place. Li wanted it all brought back, and demanded a general reorganization of affairs that would give the Kuomintang less power. The argument showed signs of settling down to one of the old-time feuds. It would certainly have developed along those lines if anyone had had the leisure to pursue the ancient path, but the Reds were closing in.

  During the last months of Nationalist presence on the mainland Chiang in his capacity of Generalissimo (not President) was constantly on the move. He flew up several times to Shansi to confer with Yen Hsi-shan, hurrying to Peking at the last minute to direct operations from there, visiting Honan and Kiangsu, always under pressure, always under strain, yet remaining calmer than any of his underlings. His years of austerity served him well: his spare frame at the age of sixty-two could take a lot of punishment. Now he went to Shanghai, still uncertain of his status. He had not yet decided to resume the duties of President, and Li was willing that the matter remain unsettled as long as the Generalissimo directed the final stand they had agreed must be made at the great treaty port. The inevitable retreat could then be laid at his door,
where the Vice-President was convinced it belonged.

  Li continued to write to Washington, criticizing Chiang and begging for support of himself. He knew that the Generalissimo was taking a last look at Shanghai and the coast, planning against the day he was convinced would soon come, when the Nationalists would rout the Reds and come back as a victorious army and fight their way across China, freeing the country as they went. Like most of the generals, Li was not inclined to be as hopeful as all that: it had been his urgent recommendation that Chiang give over such pursuits and bend his energies instead to something really constructive; a trip to Washington, for instance, there to beg in person for the help that had already been refused to Mayling.

  No, said Chiang, he would not go to America, above all not just at this time.

  Shanghai fell on May 25. “If we do not retake the city in four months,” said Chiang, “I promise you, I will commit suicide.”

  He was making a speech in Taipei, addressing what remained of Free China. It was a routine visit: he had lately taken to commuting between the mainland and the new bolthole. He could not really have been so sanguine as all that, but in a nation’s darkest moments somebody has got to act hopeful.

  Over in Canton the generals were shuffling and reshuffling, still quarreling, resigning, accusing, and intriguing. Nothing had changed except that their foundations were sliding out from under. Chiang was better placed for constructive thinking. He had found a mountain top outside Taipei, on Yangmingshan; the air was clearer there, and he made plans. Why shouldn’t other countries of Asia combine with his remnant to face the Communist threat? He thought of Southeast Asia, the Philippines, and Korea, and then he got in touch with Quirino, President of the Philippines. Taiwan is only a few hours by plane from Manila. The Generalissimo flew down and conferred with Quirino. Later he visited Korea and interested Syngman Rhee in his plan. In the end the projected Pacific Pact was to fail in the light of Nehru’s disapproval, but it kept Chiang busy for all of July. He also found time to drop in on the mainland and make a speech at Canton.