Before entering the ornate Great Hall of the People, James Sekloong paused to glance across the hundred-acre Plaza of the Gate of Heavenly Peace. The grapelike clusters of light globes were just flickering on, but one in five remained dark. In the center of the Plaza towered a white-marble obelisk, the Monument to the People’s Heroes, which the irreverent secretly called “Chairman Mao’s last erection.” The Museum of the Chinese Revolution, which marked the eastern edge of the Plaza, was a mirror image of the Hall of the People. The same sweep of stairs rose to a terrace whose squat pillars seemed borne down by the heavy, mock-Grecian pediment. The identical new structures dwarfed the four-hundred-year-old red-brick Gate of Heavenly Peace on the Plaza’s northern boundary. The grandiose Plaza, which was twice the size of Moscow’s Red Square, had been created by six-months’ Herculean labors. It was a marble-and-concrete hymn to the Communist revolution—and to seventy-three-year-old Mao Tse-tung, Chairman of both the People’s Republic and the Communist Party.
The puritanical James considered the Plaza as intolerably pretentious as his new uniform. While imposing almost unbearable strains on the Sino-Soviet alliance in the name of revolutionary purity the Chairman was outdoing the Soviets in ostentation. His propagandists were, further, lauding the “Era of Mao Tse-tung,” just as successive Emperors had called the years of their reigns by their own names. But the Chairman was not content with the monumental display and abject flattery. He was exalting himself above the authors of the Communist creed—Marx, Engels and Lenin—and the thought of Mao Tse-tung was hailed as “the highest development of mankind’s creative genius, the apogee of Marxism-Leninism.”
Premier Nikita Sergeivich Khrushchev had excoriated the “cult of personality” when he denounced the dead dictator Joseph Stalin at the XX Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union the previous year. That cult had been reborn in the People’s Republic of China. Chairman Mao’s overwhelming self-confidence, James feared, was verging upon megalomania, while his wilfulness was contriving a major internal crisis. That crisis, James assumed, was the reason for his being summoned by Premier Chou En-lai and Deputy Chairman Liu Shao-chi, the first, his mentor in Marxism, the second, his chief in the underground and the New Fourth Army.
James realized that he had been standing in thought between the impassive honor guards for several minutes. Revolutionary egalitarianism notwithstanding, it was not seemly for a full general of the People’s Liberation Army to linger in silent reverie in the public gaze. His abstraction could encourage unwholesome speculation. He returned the sentries’ salute and strode into the two-story-high marble reception chamber of the Hall of the People. He was briskly passed up the chain of aides and secretaries into the presence of the two men who administered China while the Chairman brooded on his visions. They were seated in green-plush armchairs beside a low table on which documents were strewn amid porcelain teacups. Their heads were conspiratorially close, the Premier’s grizzled and Comrade Shao-chi’s white.
“I am delighted that Comrade General Shih Ai-kuo has finally found it convenient to join us.” The Premier’s sarcasm was mordant.
“Sit down, Ai-kuo.” Comrade Shao-chi waved aside James’s apologies. “Join us. We need your counsel.”
“The Deputy Chairman and I are discussing certain problems, Comrade General.” The Premier’s exaggerated courtesy demonstrated that he would not easily relinquish the bone of his displeasure. “You can assist by giving us your impressions of the major campaigns since Liberation.”
James’s throat tightened. He knew that both his superiors wished him well, and they had demonstrated their confidence by asking him to join their private councils. He was nonetheless apprehensive. The too casual question was also too simple. A junior political commissar might put that question to young recruits.
“Fully?” He probed cautiously. “It’s a long tale.”
“As fully as you wish,” Chou En-lai directed.
“Comrade Premier,” James replied by rote, “there have been five major campaigns since Liberation, and we are now engaged in the sixth. The Land Reform Movement gave the farmers land and liquidated the landlords. The Three-Antis Campaign corrected evils arising within the Party after our victory exposed cadres to new temptations. The Five-Antis Campaign eliminated the urban bourgeoisie and prepared for total nationalization of private enterprise. The Cooperativization Campaign consolidated the farmers’ inefficient private holdings in readiness for mechanization of agriculture. The Su-fan Movement rooted out erroneous tendencies persisting with the Party after the Three-Antis. The Hundred Flowers Movement is now displaying the Party’s confidence—and testing previous campaigns—by inviting the masses to offer frank criticism of our regime.”
“Good,” the Premier said. “Very good for a middle-school student. General, that’s not what I meant. We don’t need a recitation from an indoctrination primer. We want the honest opinion of a man close to the Party Center, but not at the center. We require an assessment, not a …”
“Ai-kuo, our problem is easy to state, but difficult to resolve,” Comrade Shao-chi interrupted. “We are striving to reform the basic character of Chinese society and the thinking of the masses. Are we succeeding?”
“Speak freely, Ai-kuo.” The Premier’s formal displeasure relented. “We three are quite alone, and no one is listening. I’ve seen to that.”
James calculated his answer while shaking a cigarette from a red packet of the Heavenly Peace Brand. His expression did not betray his hasty calculation: The Premier and Comrade Shao-chi, he knew, would not waste their time contriving an elaborate trap for a man who had served them loyally for decades. Since they knew he was no fool, absolute frankness, he decided, was his only possible response.
“I apologize for my frivolous reply.” His voice was level. “But evasiveness is becoming a habit among us.…”
“There you are,” Comrade Shao-chi told the Premier. “My point entirely.”
“And my point, though not stated with my own normal evasiveness.” The Premier smiled at his own serpentine humor. “My point, too.”
“No, Comrades,” James said, “we are not succeeding. We are trying very hard, but not really succeeding. We have erred in considering the Chinese people as malleable as potter’s clay. We’ve wasted much energy and sacrificed too many able men merely to change the outward shape of Chinese society. But we have not really changed the people’s thinking. They are still reactionary and feudal-minded. Worse, we are no longer loved.”
“Your evidence?” the Premier demanded as he had in the classrooms of the Whampoa Academy. “What is the objective basis of your impressions?”
“Not just my impressions.” James’s stomach turned in renewed apprehension. This interview could not possibly work out well; he would either convict himself of erroneous thinking or earn a distasteful assignment by his own words. “Many reports pass across my desk. People are talking freely. Why shouldn’t they? The Party has invited them to speak out.”
“They wouldn’t,” Comrade Shao-chi interjected, “if they had any sense.”
“Then,” James replied, “we should presumably be pleased that they don’t have much sense. The Hundred Flowers Movement at least shows us where we stand.”
“And where do we stand?” the Premier asked.
“Up to our necks in cow-shit and the stream rising, as the farmers say. A thousand voices have denounced our regime—actually thousands, including every non-Communist Cabinet member and a basketful of professors. But there’s much worse than the criticism of bourgeois intellectuals. Have you heard what that girl student at Peking University said? Or the diatribe of the young peasant cadre at the People’s University?”
“I thought they’d come up.” Comrade Shao-chi leafed through the documents on the table. “I have the reports here if you haven’t seen them.”
The Premier shook his head.
“Let me read quickly and divert your spear from Ai-kuo,” Comrade Shao-chi offered. “He
re we are: ‘Wang Hsiao-na, twenty-one, student at Peking U. who joined Red Army at thirteen. Addressed fellow students three days ago. Declared she’d been utterly mistaken in supporting the Party all her life. Demanded that entire Communist system be rent asunder … and then said she was ready to go to jail.”
“Brave girl!” The Premier commented dryly. “She will. And the other?”
“Wu Wei-ming, twenty-two, pure peasant origins, activist at People’s University. His remarks merit quoting directly: ‘The Party confronts a profoundly dangerous crisis. When pork is totally unavailable and vegetables have gone up six hundred percent in a year, it is hard to fool the masses with the same old lies about living standards’ improving beyond belief. Beyond belief, indeed! The people are losing all confidence in the Communist Party. They say things are much worse than under the Nationalists. The Party has divorced itself from the people. Even more important, the masses are divorcing themselves from the Party. The Party will soon collapse.…’”
“Eloquent!” the Premier observed. “But eloquence won’t do him much good where he’s going.”
“And,” Comrade Shao-chi insisted, “young Wu’s final remarks: ‘The Party can, of course, use machine guns to suppress trouble. But it should remember that machine guns are often turned against those who first use them!’”
“We don’t have much choice, do we?”
James nodded agreement to the Premier’s rhetorical question.
“And the Army? The Peking Command?” Comrade Shao-chi demanded. “Can you vouch for its loyalty?”
“If we act soon, yes,” James answered. “Later, not necessarily. If we wait too long, say six months, no, not at all.”
“Then we’re agreed.” The Premier addressed the Deputy Chairman. “Finish off the coalition government. Get rid of the façade. Clamp down hard on the dissidents.”
“An external diversion will be essential,” Comrade Shao-chi advised. “Otherwise, how can the Chairman reverse his policy?”
“Taiwan again?” James suggested.
“Pointless,” the Premier decided. “Who believes we can take Taiwan? Besides, we don’t need war with the Americans on top of our troubles with the damned Russkis.”
“Quemoy,” Comrade Shao-chi suggested. “Quemoy and Matsu are long overdue for liberation.”
“Yes, that might work,” the Premier mused. “Certainly feasible militarily. So let’s think about Quemoy and Matsu. But what will the Americans do?”
“All right, Ai-kuo,” Comrade Shao-chi directed. “Better get back to your office. I don’t want all Peking gossiping about a long conference. We’ll speak to you again soon.”
Returning through the marble corridors, the General returned the greetings of scores of officials—and noted that the one thing missing from the Great Hall of the People was the ordinary Chinese people. He reluctantly concurred in his seniors’ decision. Action was necessary, and necessity could tolerate no restraint. There could be no mercy for those who tried to turn back the clock of history. But why, he wondered bleakly, was forcible suppression necessary in 1957? Only a year earlier the Party had believed that the masses and the intellectuals were totally dedicated to the revolution.
The top-secret report entitled Assessment of the Situation of the Communist Bandits, March 1958, had been prepared by the Intelligence Section of the Ministry of Defense of the Nationalists’ Republic of China. Younger, Westernized officials smiled at its ornately archaic style, while older, traditionally minded officials nodded their approbation. But all rejoiced at the objective report of conditions on the Communist-ruled mainland. Peking’s decision to crush dissident opinion had provoked resistance among the people and despondency within the Communist Party. Nationalist generals shook off their protracted torpor, and staff officers reviewed their plans to “retake the mainland.” The head-on collision between the Chinese people and their Communist rulers could provide the opportunity Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek’s armies awaited.
Ku yin min chih pu kan ming, min hsin jih li! [The Assessment began with a classical quotation.] Because the people cannot tolerate the present Mandate of Heaven their hearts are daily further alienated. As the Americans say, the people’s honeymoon with the Communist bandits is over. Yi chieh yu wei fa, meng huan pao ying. All the grand promises are finally recognized as illusions, the shadows of bubbles. The Communists babble with eight tongues in seven mouths, while the people gird for vengeance.
General Thomas Sekloong, restored to favor as senior military assistant to President Chiang Kai-shek, scanned the florid report. The Monthly Assessment was a hard-headed appraisal, quite unlike the public propaganda intended to delude, first, the people of Taiwan; next, the Nationalists’ remaining champions abroad; and, above all, the Congress and the White House of the United States of America, which the Korean War had transformed into Taipei’s staunchest friend. Thomas knew that many influential Americans wanted to cut the Nationalists adrift. He searched the Assessment for hard evidence of severe difficulties on the Communist-ruled mainland that might halt the erosion of American support.
… more than 100 senior generals sent down to the countryside to learn through labor, [Thomas read.] including Shih Ai-kuo, “deputy commander” of the bandit Peiping Military Region and Garrison Command. “General” Shih, a henchman of bandits Chou En-lai and Liu Shao-chi, who imposed those measures to bring the so-called Liberation Army under control, returned after only two weeks. But many senior commanders have been absent from their posts for months.
The Hundred Flowers Movement was abruptly reversed last summer (1957). Bandit “Chairman” Mao Tse-tung declared that he had invited free speech in order to entice “counterrevolutionaries and the People’s enemies” into revealing themselves. He had, further, encouraged “a myriad flowers to blossom and all schools of thought to speak out in order to distinguish fragrant flowers from poisonous weeds that must be mercilessly rooted out.” The renewed Anti-Rightist Campaign (inception: autumn 1957) is now raging. Ten million intellectuals, managers, and technicians have been sent down to the countryside to “learn from the peasants.”
The façade of “coalition government” has been dismantled; all power is now openly exercised solely by the bandit Communist Party. The bandit regime is in disarray owing to widespread, virulent opposition. Neither the masses nor the intellectuals now believe in either the Communists’ promises or the bandits’ ability to rule. Senior bandit leaders are clashing. The situation is becoming increasingly favorable to us.
The “practical faction” of Chou En-lai and Liu Shao-chi is dismayed by the extremist “leftist faction” of Mao Tse-tung. Dissatisfied with slow progress toward “socialism,” the “leftist faction” has raised a new battle cry: “Redness Must Command Expertise.” Many cadres, the “leftists” charge, are “like radishes, red outside and white inside.” True Reds can become Expert, the “leftists” contend, while “bourgeois” experts can never become Red.
A new “campaign” of much greater scope, intensity, and audacity than any previous campaign is, therefore, planned. Its exact nature is unknown, but the extremists are pressing for: totally remolding the society while relentlessly increasing agricultural and industrial production. Since that upheaval will create an acute crisis of internal security, an external diversion may be judged necessary. However, the general situation is highly favorable to our cause.
Projections: We foresee renewed threats against ourselves. Taiwan is invincible, since the bandit air force and navy cannot match our forces—even without the American back-up. Attack on the offshore islands of Quemoy and Matsu is, however, feasible. Since Quemoy is surrounded by Communist-usurped territory it appears vulnerable, and we advise special vigilance by the Quemoy Garrison. Diplomatic problems may also arise. The offshore islands do not lie within “the area of Taiwan” guaranteed by the Americans when they forced our evacuation of other offshore islands in 1955.
Recommendations: (A) Exploiting the Communist bandits’ internal disarray
by: intensifying our propaganda abroad; enticing the Americans into situations where they can be directly involved in combat; and increasing our agent/guerrilla activities on the mainland. (B) Reinforcing the Quemoy and Matsu Garrisons against possible attack. (C) Preparing to move into coastal provinces opposite Taiwan when the opportunity arises.
Thomas Sekloong removed his reading glasses, laid them beside the document, and lit a cigarette from a blue packet with the Nationalists’ white-sun superimposed on the golden wings of the Air Force. The “best service,” the fly-boys called themselves, aping the bravado of their American instructors. Whatever else, they undoubtedly had the best cigarettes. The General leaned back in his swivel chair and considered the Assessment.
In its enthusiasm, the Intelligence Section had exceeded its jurisdiction. It was responsible for collecting and weighing information from the mainland, not for broad policy recommendations. Though the Intelligence Chief naturally stressed information that would please the Generalissimo, his transgression was itself indirect verification of the Assessment. General Cheng Kai-ming had not grown old in the Nationalists’ labyrinth of bureaucratic intrigue by venturing beyond his jurisdiction to make such positive statements unless he was quite certain of his grounds.
Thomas jotted a few words on his note pad. General Cheng Kai-ming guarded his sources fiercely, since he was convinced that dozens of Communist agents had penetrated the Nationalist Ministry of Defense. Thomas reluctantly decided he must press his senior, the Intelligence Chief, for his sources. This Assessment was too critical to pass to the Generalissimo without full substantiation. If General Cheng Kai-ming was right, the major upheavals on the Communist-ruled mainland could provide the opportunity for a successful counterattack the Nationalists had awaited for nine years.
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