Stilwell and the American Experience in China, 1911-45

by Barbara W. Tuchman

  The Communists themselves in their discussions with John Service at Yenan gave far more weight than Stilwell to the certain opposition of the Central Government and seemed careful in conversation to recognize its authority. They clearly had no expectation of immediate American support and were extremely cautious about discussing it. Any move toward “active collaboration,” Chou En-lai said, would be strongly and obstinately resisted by the Kuomintang. Asked whether the Yenan forces would serve under an American commander, he said yes “if agreed to by the Central Government” but the question could wait until such time as American men and supplies were coming into China in significant quantities and the counteroffensive against the Japanese was actually in sight. For the present he thought there might be a slow and careful course toward “modified collaboration.” Service’s report suggested this could take the form of furnishing basic military supplies which the Communists “desperately lacked,” and training in use of the equipment, leading as the war developed to “actual tactical cooperation.”

  It did not require anyone to be “pro”-Communist in an ideological sense to advocate American contact with, aid to or tactical collaboration with the Yenan regime. This was a course of military expediency made obvious both by the defaults of the Central Government and the geography of the north. Japan’s awesome Kwantung Army loomed ten feet tall in Manchuria and north China and the problem of how to deal with its expected long-drawn-out resistance haunted the American planners. To explore the military potential of Yenan was the official purpose of the DIXIE Mission, conceived without the benefit of Communist cells or secret agents in the American Government. It was equally devoid of ideological content when advocated by Stilwell as when advocated, oddly enough, by Chennault. Chennault thought it expedient to write to the President in September what he would not have said to his patron the Generalissimo, that it had become essential to sponsor “thorough reconstruction at Chungking, followed by true unification between Chungking and Yenan” and this must be given “absolute priority over all other objectives either military or political.” To talk of “true unification” was twaddle on a par with his boast to bring about the downfall of Japan but it would not be grounds for calling Chennault pro-Communist.

  Advocacy of a relationship with Yenan grew out of the context of 1944. Those who may have looked beyond military expediency to hope that American aid to Yenan might lead to the overthrow of the Kuomintang could do so in the belief that this would only benefit China. A rigid Communism was not seen as the replacement, and the reason why it was not was that few believed the Chinese Communists were “real” Communists. This negative assumption was derived from the syllogism that while Communism was known to be a bad thing, it seemed to operate in many ways as a good thing in China; therefore it could not be orthodox Communism. The difficulty was resolved by referring to its proponents, as did the President and Captain Carlson in an exchange of letters at this time, as “so-called Communists.”*1 This became the routine phrase in official correspondence. Stilwell invariably referred to them, as he had to the Kuomintang in its early days, as Reds (interchanging it with “Rebs” in 1911), signifying revolutionaries. To a man named for a hero of Bunker Hill there was nothing inherently un-American about revolution. China had been in need of revolution for a long time, and to most Americans sympathetic to that need, the Communists appeared as modern Taipings. They were considered to be an energetic variety of progressives or, in a phrase of the time, “agrarian reformers” (once rendered by Stilwell as “agricultural liberals”), nor was this necessarily naive.

  Mao and his group represented the triumph in Chinese Communist development of a peasant-oriented movement while retaining as the less visible part of the iceberg the dogma of Lenin about the role of the Party and its seizure of power. Their aim was to win the peasant mainstay of China by measures meaningful in the agrarian life of the country rather than by the measures prescribed by Marx for revolution in Western industrial society. Agrarian reform was in fact what they were concerned with in the effort to build up their party and army, gain a territorial base and begin the remaking of China. Their future alignment in international affairs was not, in 1944, necessarily fixed. What course Chinese Communism might have taken if an American connection had been brought to bear is a question that lost opportunities have made forever unanswerable. The only certainty is that it could not have been worse.

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  Stilwell’s concept of what his command was to include incorporated his original plan for reform of the army. He embodied it in the draft of a directive from the Generalissimo to himself which was to accompany his commission as Field Commander of the Ground and Air Forces of the Republic of China. The directive authorized him to proceed at once with preparations for a counteroffensive against the Japanese, and with reorganization and relocation of China’s forces, including the authority to activate new units, disband old units, transfer personnel from one unit to another and units from one commander or locality to another “without regard to the jurisdiction of commanders or of provincial and war area boundaries.” Except for the possible leeway implied here, no reference was made to the Communists. The directive further empowered him to “initiate at once plans to improve the livelihood of officers and soldiers…so that it will be at least equal to that of people in the rear areas.”

  Since it was unrealistic to expect that the Generalissimo would sign such a directive, with its admission of inadequate livelihood, it probably represented Stilwell’s maximum position. He may even have allowed himself to believe it could be imposed because of the support of his own Government, which he now supposed was behind him. Hurley naturally saw no objection and presented the proposed commission and directive to the Generalissimo. During the usual wait that followed, Stilwell did battle with Ho for fillers for the Y-force which was now down to an effective combat strength of 14,000. He managed to extract a promise of 10,000 in exchange for some Canadian Bren guns. “They throw away 300,000 men in Honan without batting an eye and I break my back trying to get 10,000 to replace battle casualties.”

  In east China a second American air base had fallen and the Japanese were bearing down on Kweilin, the Paris of the south, with every indication that the loss of the city was imminent. Tired and disorganized, the defense of east China suffered from the same lack of plan and provisions that had overtaken the hapless Czarist armies of World War I. Units were equipped with old and outmoded arms, in some cases not enough rifles for every man or enough ammunition for every rifle. Although generally well supplied with machine guns, they had meager artillery and insufficient shells or, if a division had enough field guns, these were parceled out for use one by one. Coordinated action was stultified by bickering between field commanders and Chungking, by the uncertain strategy and utter inadequacy of the General Staff, and by the Generalissimo’s vacillations and mistrust of the southern commanders which resulted in supplies and reinforcements being doled out piecemeal or too late. Chiang allowed himself the assumption that the defense line in the mountains 70 miles north of Kweilin could be held for three months but the Japanese breached the pass in three days. Efforts by Hsueh and Chang Fa-kwei, War Zone Commander in the Kweilin area, to concentrate strength at any one place were defeated by the Generalissimo’s fatal affinity for using one unit and holding back one for fear of losing both. All the while the thin and threadbare troops climbed the hilltops in the heat, held their forlorn positions and died under the enemy’s guns.

  While the Japanese cut their way into Kwangsi, 16 Chinese armies in the north were held motionless in the quarantine of the Communists. When one relief army, the 93rd, was sent down to Kweilin by the Central Government, the troops, who were strangers to the region, did more looting than fighting. The Commanding General of the 93rd, as reported by Theodore White who covered the campaign, “did not know where his flanks were, did not know the distance to the next unit in line, did not know which villages the enemy held” and abandoned the position he was supposed to hold wit
hout firing a shot. In the countryside the uprooted population clogged the roads while fifth columnists working for the Japanese spread fire and panic.

  Stilwell flew to Kweilin on September 14 to confer with Chang Fa-kwei and decide on the fate of the extensive American air installations. Chang told him that against his own judgment the Generalissimo’s orders were to retire inside Kweilin with the only remaining reliable divisions and defend the city from within, a decision that in Stilwell’s opinion would make the place “another rat-trap.” Chang Fa-kwei said he could hold Kweilin for two months but he had no forces to protect the airfield except the unreliable 93rd Army. After conferring with Chennault, Stilwell gave the hard order for evacuation of American men and equipment and demolition of all the airstrips except one which could be used up to the last minute to bring in guns and ammunition to the besieged garrison of Kweilin. After he had gone, the cargo planes of the ATC came in to carry away the stocks of bombs, gasoline, spare parts, trucks and repair shops they had brought in ton by ton at such cost over the Hump. They left behind 550 barrels of gasoline for use by the demolition squads to fire the installations. Such was the value of Chiang Kai-shek’s “personal assurance” to Roosevelt in 1943 that his armies could defend the air bases.

  Two months later at the end of November an American OSS unit discovered a cache of arms hidden in the hills around Tushan, 200 miles east of Kweilin in the province of Kweichow. In 20 or more warehouses each about 200 feet long there was stored 50,000 tons of weapons and ammunition, including 50 new field guns and their shells, which the Central Government had collected over the years for use in case of need in east China. By that time Kweilin and Liuchow had fallen, the Japanese were probing at Kweichow, Chungking was trembling—and the arms were still being stored against a crisis.

  Stilwell was in Kweilin no more than 24 hours before he was summoned back to a conference with the Generalissimo. Frightened by the Japanese breakthrough, Chiang delivered what amounted to an ultimatum: either the Burma divisions attacked toward Bhamo within one week to take the pressure off the Chinese at Lungling or he would pull the Y-force back across the Salween to protect Kunming. He was afraid that a defeat at Lungling would be followed by a Japanese attack on Kunming and this prospect, because of the city’s position on the same interior line as Chungking, always caused him the greatest alarm. His ultimatum meant in effect terminating the action in north Burma just short of the capstone of the campaign whose capture would have completed the reopening of the road to China.

  “The crazy little bastard,” wrote Stilwell in a fury. “The little matter of the Ledo Road is forgotten. The only point on the whole trace we do not control is Lungling and he wants to give that up and sabotage the whole God-damn project—men, money, material, time and sweat that we have put on it for two and a half years just to help China. Unthinkable. It does not even enter that hickory nut he uses for a head….Usual cockeyed reasons and idiotic tactical and strategic conceptions. He is impossible.” Just at this moment the Y-force succeeded in taking Tengchung, the walled city controlling a side road to Burma, and with the 10,000 replacements promised by Ho the prospects for taking Lungling looked good.

  Stilwell immediately reported the Generalissimo’s intention to Marshall, saying that he had been “appalled” and had protested strongly without making any impression on Chiang Kai-shek who “will not listen to reason….I am now convinced that he regards the South China catastrophe as of little moment, believing that the Japs will not bother him further in that area, and that he imagines that he can get behind the Salween front and there wait in safety for the U.S. to finish the war.” Here was the basis of the fundamental cultural clash between Chiang’s and Stilwell’s theories of war. Throughout Stilwell’s mission every action and decision of the Generalissimo had been molded by the principle of hoarding resources and waiting until one barbarian should defeat the other. From the Chinese point of view this was sensible and justified. From the point of view of the Americans, who were providing the resources and believed in taking action to command fate, it was unacceptable and unjustified. There could be no meeting across this divide.

  Stilwell determined to try some “plain talk” with T. V. Soong in the hope of getting through to the Generalissimo. With his Westernized education and familiarity with Western ways, T.V. was the nearest thing to a bridge, although so smooth in manner as to make the footing sometimes slippery. His frankness and friendliness were exceedingly effective with foreigners: Hurley was succumbing and Nelson making promises. T.V.’s restoration was now reinforced by the absence of his sisters. After months of rumor and gossip about Chiang’s refusal to banish a concubine from his household, Madame had departed on July 1 to visit with Mme. Kung in Brazil. The Generalissimo had given a farewell party at which he publicly denied infidelity. On Madame’s arrival in the United States in September rumors of a marital rift were so current that the Chinese Embassy felt obliged to issue a denial. She remained abroad for over a year until September 1945.

  Stilwell’s plain talk with T.V., far from bridging the gulf, served rather to make its full extent visible. Both were shocked by the discovery. According to his advance notes, Stilwell was prepared to tell T.V. that the Generalissimo would have to make up his mind “to do things never before done”—that is appoint an overall commander with full power—and that if he were not willing, Stilwell’s recommendation to his Government would be “to withdraw entirely from China and India and set up a base elsewhere.” He was also prepared to ask for the replacement of Ho as War Minister and Chief of Staff by Ch’en Ch’eng and Pai Ch’ung-hsi, respectively. When he stated these and the conditions outlined in his draft directive, T.V. was “appalled at the gap between our conception of field commander and the Generalissimo’s.” When T.V. in turn described the Generalissimo’s concept of the post, Stilwell indignantly summed it up as that of an “overall stooge.”

  He had not sought and did not want “the God-awful job,” he told T.V., but if he took it he would have to have full authority, otherwise he would not accept the responsibility. And if he got it, “the G–mo would have to keep his fingers out of the pie.” He said he had looked forward for 44 years for the chance to command American troops, and could have had it if he had not been a real friend of China.

  Like anyone in a dilemma Stilwell was ambivalent. It was true he had given up the first American overseas combat command of the war to come to China but the impossible conditions of GYMNAST when it was first handed to him had certainly made that decision easier. It also was true that common sense told him he did not want the god-awful job now at issue, yet at the same time he did want it and tried his best to obtain it. His sense of responsibility to China was strong. After consulting with Pai Ch’ung-hsi about Kweilin he drew up a plan of action for a more effective defense than the Generalissimo’s “Rat Trap Special.” Instead of allowing the last remaining units to be surrounded in Kweilin, the plan called for them to be used in a battle of maneuver with specified positions and objectives. If unsuccessful, the units—instead of being completely lost—could at least be withdrawn to join the forces Stilwell planned to collect in Kweichow for the eventual drive to the coast. This plan was submitted to the Generalissimo on September 18.

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  Chiang’s threat to withdraw behind the Salween, as reported by Stilwell to Marshall, lit the final “firecracker.” Stilwell’s telegram reached Marshall in the midst of the second Quebec Conference where Churchill and Roosevelt were plunged in heated controversy over the future treatment of Germany, and the Combined Chiefs were pursuing new and old disputes of strategy and planning. All these, however acrimonious, at least represented progress. China was the one area of serious disappointment and bewilderment, where neither statesmen nor commanders had a coherent or consistent idea of what course to pursue.

  Presiding from depression to war, Roosevelt was in his twelfth year of office and for the last three years had been spending at least sixteen hours a day meeting crises and mak
ing decisions. He was too worn to attempt any radical new thought or new effort. Militarily China had proved a losing game and by now was not vitally needed except as a holding theater. The strategic aim that took shape at Quebec was to keep China in the war and not much more. No U.S. units were planned for CBI; Marshall was definite on that point. Further operations in Burma were to be left as far as possible to the British so that the United States would not be involved in the reconquest of colonial territory—or such was the intention.

  Now, on top of the progressive collapse in east China, came the Generalissimo’s grand refusal, or threat of refusal, to take any further part in breaking his own blockade. Marshall presented the gist of Stilwell’s telegram to the Conference in the presence of Roosevelt and Churchill at the session of September 16. He apparently came furnished with the text of a reply, for the minutes record, in a paroxysm of understatement, that a “note” was sent by the President to the Generalissimo pointing out that he must accept full responsibility for the consequences of his action. This “note,” which was to be the fatal catalyst, was a 600-word telegram drafted by Marshall’s staff at Quebec and bearing in Marshall’s handwriting the endorsement, “I recommend that you send the proposed attached message to the Generalissimo.” Roosevelt’s long-stroked signature appears at the bottom.

  The making of foreign policy in World War II came out of the great Allied conferences dominated by the military where the military staffs were the working members, and the civil arm, except for the two chiefs of state, was represented meagerly, if at all. Pomp and uniforms held the floor and everyone appeared twice as authoritative as he would have in the two-button business suit of ordinary life. Human fallibility was concealed by all those beribboned chests and knife-edged tailoring. By the nature of the message they proposed to send Chiang Kai-shek, the military were conducting foreign policy but nobody questioned it. Stilwell’s colleagues in the War Department shared his outrage and were prepared to talk tough—not without an element of the white man’s superiority; it is doubtful if the note would have been addressed to the head of any European government. Roosevelt was either past caring about Chiang Kai-shek’s dignity or else signed Marshall’s message with little attention, which amounts to the same thing.