The Cold War

by Robert Cowley

  The next morning dawned crisp and clear. Having been issued ammunition and C rations, our detachment of roughly forty marines and a corpsman, under the command of a lieutenant, boarded five trucks and a jeep and set out for Lang Fang. After we passed through one of the big tower gates in the huge wall surrounding Peking, we looked back and saw Chinese soldiers pulling the gate shut behind us. Our convoy went out into the windswept countryside, while we kept a sharp lookout for possible Communist ambush. Some miles down the road, we moved through an ancient walled village, virtually unchanged since the time of Kublai Khan and Marco Polo. It was crowded with Chinese peasants. Not a single person could be seen outside the walls—grim evidence of the terrible unrest and chaos infecting the countryside.

  We soon arrived at Lang Fang, an unwalled village of about five hundred people. Our convoy entered a modern walled compound; atop one small building was a radio antenna. Behind the radio station were our quarters, in some one-story wooden barracks-type buildings. Several of us were detailed for guard duty along the compound wall. My post was on the fire step overlooking a narrow intersection lined with rows of single-story houses of mud and brick. Looking through a fire port and over the parapet, which had barbed wire stretched on top, I realized that we would be easy prey for any snipers in nearby houses.

  Several curious Chinese children gathered in the street, and I began talking with them as well as I could, considering my limited knowledge of their language. I tossed a couple of pieces of C-ration candy to them, and they shouted their appreciation. Immediately, a crowd of about fifty people gathered, shouting and holding out their hands. Those of us who were on the wall soon ran out of candy and started tossing hardtack biscuits to them. They begged for more. Then a sergeant double-timed up and told us to save our rations in case we were cut off. (A chilling thought, to be sure!) In the late afternoon, my buddy and I were relieved by the next watch, and we set out beyond the compound gate in search of fresh eggs.

  About a block to our right, we noticed the Japanese camp, which had several imposing brick buildings. Curious about our recent enemy, we went up to its gate, where a sentry snapped to and saluted us. We returned his salute. (All Japanese troops of all ranks saluted all marines regardless of rank. I was told they respected us because we had defeated the best troops they had.) We entered the camp, knowing from what we had seen in Peking that the Japanese were now on their best behavior around Americans. An officer invited us to two tables neatly spread with white tablecloths. On one were servings of tea and cookies; on the other were several fine samurai sabers. The officer saluted, bowed, and, pointing to the tables, said in perfect English, “You are welcome to anything you wish.” Just then, another marine ran up and told us we were not allowed in the Japanese camp yet. The Japanese officer seemed confused by our sudden departure.

  Grumbling mightily, we headed back into the village, still in search of eggs. Some Chinese peasants walked past us in the narrow streets; others sat on benches in front of their houses. A few had winter lettuce or other items for sale, but no eggs. The faces of Lang Fang's inhabitants were tanned and weather-beaten, revealing lives of hard labor and exposure to harsh conditions. The image of these terribly poor people, dressed in drab, dark blue winter clothing, and of the barren, windswept brown landscape was depressing.

  Across the track, beyond the sooty, tile-roofed brick railroad station, we saw a group of several hundred Chinese troops bivouacked. They had stacked arms and were lounging around eating rations. Clad in mustard-colored uniforms, wrap leggings, and sneakers, they also wore the type of fatigue cap that made their ears stick straight out. We noted that their rifles were Japanese Arisakas. There were also numerous Nambu light machine guns, the kind that had given us so much misery during the war. In my limited Chinese, I asked each group of soldiers if there were any eggs for sale. Finally, a tall fellow produced a basket of fresh eggs, and we bought a dozen. Suddenly, I noticed that none of these soldiers was the least bit friendly, unlike most of the other Chinese we had encountered; in fact, they were taciturn and sullen. It was unnerving that such battle-hardened veterans as my buddy and me could have been so oblivious to the mood of these troops.

  Carrying our paper bag of eggs, we hurried back across the track, only to be met by a frantic runner who told us that those were Communist troops we had been wandering among! As this was the second runner who had been sent after us, we expected to be disciplined. But our lieutenant did not notice us when we eased past him back into the compound. Soon we heard the word going around that there was a strong indication of Communist activity around the village after dark. We realized that we had already had a close call across the track.

  In northern China at this time were many different armed groups: Japanese, Japanese-trained and -equipped Chinese puppet-government soldiers, Chinese Communists, Chinese Nationalists, Chinese bandits, and U.S. Marines—all armed to the teeth and vying to fill the power vacuum resulting from Japan's surrender. To the south, Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalist troops were locked in a bloody civil war with Mao Tse-tung's Communists. U.S. planes were flying Nationalist troops up to Peking to oppose the Communists in the north. In Lang Fang and many other areas, even the surrendered Japanese were allowed to retain their arms, under U.S. supervision, in order to help fight the Communists; they were tough, highly trained, and well-disciplined troops who were best able to oppose Mao's followers until the arrival of sufficient Nationalist forces. The Chinese puppet troops were considered of doubtful reliability, while the bandits had no motivation to fight other than a love of plunder from the helpless farmers. The bandits sometimes called themselves Communists, but only when it seemed convenient; we came to believe that they would side in any fight with whoever they thought would win.

  The 1st Marine Division's original assignment, to disarm and repatriate Japanese troops, went ahead on schedule, but as the situation became more chaotic, many of us increasingly found ourselves fighting the Communists in lonely outposts and along the railroad lines. The Communists bitterly objected to the U.S. presence and fired propaganda blasts at our high command—as well as bullets at marines out in the boondocks. Too many marines who had fought in World War II, and wanted to go home now that it was over, died protecting a bridge or railroad track in the wasteland of northern China.

  One of the many incidents involving some of these various forces occurred at Lang Fang on October 26, shortly after the egg quest. Breaking out our C rations for dinner, we heated stew and coffee and boiled eggs. As the orange sun began to sink through the dust and haze, we started to shiver in the chilly evening air. We wore tropical cotton dungarees, and although we had sweatshirts, we had been in the Pacific so long that we were not acclimated to even the slightest cool weather. Some of us walked around inside the compound, trying to warm ourselves.

  Just before sunset, a Chinese messenger arrived at the gate with a note from a puppet general seeking permission from our commanding officer to test-fire a light machine gun in a sandbagged position on top of a two-story building near the railroad station. With permission apparently given, we watched several puppet soldiers working with the Nambu. To our amazement, they aimed the machine gun directly at the area where my buddy and I had been among the unfriendly troops; then they fired several long bursts. We all knew that meant trouble.

  Initially, however, silence returned as darkness fell. We drifted into our quarters, wrapped ourselves in blankets, and tried to stay warm. The sentries on duty around the wall simply shivered.

  Then, in under half an hour, we heard rifle fire in the distance. The order came: “Break 'em out on the double!” Someone yelled, “Everybody outside on the double with weapons and ammo—let's move!” I pulled on my field shoes, grabbed the .45-caliber Thompson submachine gun I had carried through both Peleliu and Okinawa, rammed a twenty-round magazine in place, and tumbled outside. I headed for the fire step with everyone else. We were told to remain neutral in this fight, but if we saw anyone stick his head over the wall, we
were to blow it off. The volume of rifle fire increased, and we began to hear the crash of 81mm mortar shells in the village. A Chinese ran through the dark, narrow streets tooting on a bugle. He sounded more like some drunk on New Year's Eve than any bugler I had ever heard. We were all apprehensive. Though the firing was almost unnoticeable compared to Peleliu and Okinawa, we had reason to be concerned. Here we were, about forty U.S. Marines in the middle of what could explode into a vicious battle between two opposing Chinese forces numbering in the thousands. We had survived fierce combat in the Pacific, and none of us wanted to stretch his luck any further and get killed in a Chinese civil war. We felt abandoned and expendable.

  Then the word was passed along that Japanese troops were going out to guard the railroad station with two tanks. Most of us were not assigned to specific guard stations, so we ran the short distance to the wall bordering the road, to watch this incredible scene. With our weapons slung or buttstocks resting on the fire step, we silently watched as the tanks and about thirty infantry passed no more than a few feet from us. Nervously, I fingered the web sling on my Thompson—the impulse to bring up the weapon to aim at our very recent enemies and squeeze the trigger was almost more than I could suppress. The marine next to me expressed my feelings, and probably those of many of the other men, when he said, “It sure is hard not to line 'em up and squeeze 'em off.”

  As the lead tank slowly clanked past us, its headlights shining, we saw a Japanese officer in dress uniform and cap, Sam Browne belt, campaign ribbons, and white gloves standing erect in the turret with his samurai saber slung over his shoulder. I wondered if I would ever understand the Japanese military. The infantrymen wore helmets and cartridge boxes but no packs. They carried Arisaka rifles, with bayonets fastened to their belts. The tank treads and hobnailed shoes churned up dust as they went past us and disappeared behind village buildings.

  Returning to our previous positions along the wall, we learned that our CO had sent word to the Japanese major that we were neutral, but the U.S. government would hold him responsible if any marine was injured.

  The sound of firing lasted until about midnight. Just before dawn, the Japanese came past us and returned to their barracks. At daylight, several puppet soldiers came to our gate and begged for treatment of their wounds. Our corpsman bandaged them, but he was ordered to conserve his supplies for our use. Other wounded soldiers were sent to the Japanese barracks.

  The sun rose in a cloudless sky of brilliant blue. We soon heard the familiar sound of approaching Corsair engines. We watched with great satisfaction as several of the beautiful gull-winged marine fighters flew back and forth and circled over us. The pilots waved and gave us the thumbs-up sign. The Corsairs provided a great boost to our morale, as well as an impressive show of force for any watching Communists. We no longer felt isolated.

  I do not remember how many days we remained in Lang Fang before another patrol relieved us, but it was not long. During this time, we were ordered to remain in or near the compound—not that any of us had the least desire to go exploring. We played baseball in a field just outside the compound gate and stayed vigilant. Fortunately, everything was quiet, and we soon returned uneventfully to Peking.

  The final G-2 report of the incident mentioned that four to five thousand Communists had attacked the village but that the marine patrol had not been molested. There was only a brief reference to the Japanese tanks, and none to the infantry with them. I have no idea whether the U.S. government really would have held the Japanese major responsible if any Americans had been injured in the skirmish. And I never learned who ordered the Japanese to send out a patrol with tanks to guard the railroad station.

  The incident at Lang Fang became a bland paragraph in a routine report. But to the marine combat veterans involved, this close call was an unforgettable experience, not so much for what happened but for what could have happened to a small group of fugitives from the law of averages. The wheel of fortune had spun once more—and again we had survived.

  The Escape of the Amethyst

  SIMON WINCHESTER

  How drastically military momentum can change in just three and a half years. In the fall of 1945, when Eugene Sledge had his encounter with the sullen detachment of Communist troops, the Nationalists held a distinct advantage. Against the advice of American military advisers, Chiang sent his best armies north into Manchuria. They took the most important cities, but the Communists held the countryside and threatened rail connections. For Chiang, it was a strategic trap from which he would never escape.

  The Communists, close to defeat in the early months of 1946, would regroup; as time went on and their armies grew, the initiative in the civil war would pass to them. They began to sever the supply links to the armies holding the Manchurian cities: Trapped, the Nationalists had no choice but to surrender. The Communists then pushed southward, taking advantage of Nationalist demoralization and inept generalship. Still, the Nationalists began 1948 with a three-to-one superiority; by the end of the year, the Communist forces outnumbered them. Many of their troops were former Nationalists; even generals went over to their side. They captured vast stockpiles of American arms, left behind by the fleeing Nationalists. Now they had material superiority, too. But Mao was convinced that the Americans were preparing to mount an invasion, leading him to announce a “lean to one side” doctrine. That side was, of course, the U.S.S.R. The Iron Curtain now extended to Asia.

  In the spring of 1949, as the blockade of Berlin was fizzling to an end, Chiang's Nationalist armies were close to collapse. If the Soviets in the West had suffered a reverse that checked their expansionist hopes in Europe, in the East the armies of Mao's People's Republic were on the verge of achieving Communism's most resounding (and most enduring) victory. They occupied the greater part of China north of the Yangtze, and on April 20 would begin to cross the divided nation's greatest river. That was the same day that the British frigate Amethyst came under fire from Communist guns as it made its way up the Yangtze. Its mission was to bring supplies to the British embassy in Nanking, the Nationalist capital that Chiang's government was already abandoning. The Communists would occupy it, unopposed, on April 24, by which time a badly damaged Amethyst had crawled to the relative safety of a protective island. The frigate would spend the next 101 days there, trapped and a virtual captive of the Communists. During that interval, which lasted into midsummer, Chiang would flee to Taiwan and the Reds would take China's largest city, Shanghai.

  What followed all depends on your point of view. For the West, and Great Britain especially, the Amethyst's dash for freedom was the stuff of legend—and, inevitably, a movie. Was it indeed one of the rare epics of the burgeoning Cold War? But as Simon Winchester learned when he visited the site, the Chinese regard the escape of “The Imperial Make-Trouble Vessel” as a tale of bloodied bullies slinking away, a humiliation for the British Empire in particular and white prestige in general. For over a century, the Royal Navy had roamed the major rivers of China unchallenged. Suddenly, it seemed a little less invincible. The psychological impact of the Amethyst incident (as Chassin writes) “did more for a Communist victory than any strategic maneuver could possibly have done.”

  SIMON WINCHESTER has published eighteen books, including Their Noble Lordships, Prison Diary: Argentina, The Professor and the Madman, The Map That Changed the World, Krakatoa, and The Meaning of Everything. His next book is A Crack in the Edge of the World: America and the Great California Earthquake of 1906. This article is adapted from Winchester's account of a journey up the Yangtze, The River at the Heart of the World. When not traveling, he can be found in New York City, on a farm in the Berkshires, or on the Scottish island of Luing.

  ZHENJIANG, A MODERATELY SIZED and moderately ugly city that lies on the still-tidal waters of the Yangtze, a hundred miles inland from the river's mouth, has long been famous in China for the making of vinegar. Westerners with a taste for literature may also know it as the childhood home of a formidable lady named Pear
l Sydenstricker, who, after her marriage, became Pearl S. Buck, Nobel laureate. But I had long known of the place for a quite different reason. There was supposed to be a relic in Zhenjiang—from 1949, back when it was known as Chinkiang—that would stir the heart of any English schoolboy of my generation: the anchor of the famous and heroic Royal Navy vessel H.M.S. Amethyst. I had come to Zhenjiang because I wanted to see it.

  So I told my translator what I wanted and suggested she might ask where the anchor was to be found. She translated the vessel's name to herself—“Ame-thyst, how to say?”—and then suddenly snorted (for weeks she had been ribbing me about the British empire) with mock annoyance.

  “I know the ship. Of course!” she said. “We call it the ‘Imperial Make-Trouble Vessel.’ What is the name? Purple Stone Hero, yes, that's it! We defeated it. All Chinese know the story. You came as pirates, and we made you run! You were forced to leave a part of your precious ship behind, here in Zhenjiang. You destroyed a junk with passengers on your way out. Killed many people. We will find the piece you left behind. The anchor. It was a great humiliation for your precious British empire.”

  I reeled slightly from this unexpected onslaught. The facts—or at least the facts as presented to us as schoolchildren—had cast the whole affair for me in a very different light.

  His Majesty's Ship Amethyst was a sloop-cum-frigate, built in 1943, the eighth to bear her name in the Royal Navy's history. She was of 1,495 tons displacement, three hundred feet long, thirty-eight feet across, and had been built on the Clyde by Alexander Stephen & Sons. She had the typical arms for a ship of the Black Swan class: six 4-inch guns, two Bofors guns, and twin Oerlikons. She normally carried 170 officers and men.