Eventually the success of the Red Army attacks forced Chiang Kai-shek to change tack, and in the early 1930s he began to encircle the Communists with a network of thousands of ‘turtle-shell’ forts and well-entrenched artillery lines with overlapping fields of fire in an attempt to cut them off economically. This tactic was recommended by one of Chiang’s advisors, the noted German military expert General Hans von Seeckt, who wanted to flush out the Communists from their hideouts and force them into the open. It was called the Fifth Campaign and initially it worked well. By their own accounts, the Red Army suffered 60,000 casualties during this one siege, forcing them finally to give up the offensive, leave their mountains and beat a hasty retreat. And thus the Long March was born.
Snow described how it began:
Nevertheless, the Fifth Campaign ultimately proved inconclusive. It failed in its objective, which was to destroy the living forces of the Red Army. A Red military conference was called at Juichin, and it was decided to withdraw, transferring the main Red strength to a new base. The plans for this great expedition, which was to last a whole year, were complete and efficient. They perhaps revealed a certain military genius that the Reds had not shown during their periods of offensive. For it is one thing to command a victorious advancing army, and quite another to carry through to success a plan calling for retreat under such handicaps as those which lay ahead in the now famous Long March to the North-west.
The retreat from Jiangxi evidently was so swiftly and secretly managed that the main forces of the Red troops, estimated at about 100,000 men, had already been marching for several days before the enemy headquarters became aware of what was taking place. They had mobilised in Southern Jiangxi, withdrawing most of their regular troops from the northern front, and replacing them with partisans. Those movements occurred always at night. When practically the whole Red Army was concentrated in Yudu, in southern Jiangxi, the order was given for the Great March, which began on October 16, 1934.
For three nights the Reds pressed in two columns to the west and to the south. On the fourth they advanced, totally unexpectedly, almost simultaneously attacking the Hunan and Kwangtung lines of fortifications. They took these by assault, put their astonished enemy on the run, and never stopped until they had occupied the ribbon of blockading forts and entrenchments on the southern front. This gave them roads to the south and to the west, along which their vanguard began its sensational trek.
Snow himself was there to witness the long lines of soldiers and peasants who carried everything away with them. Whole factories were taken apart and the machinery shouldered by people and pack animals for as many kilometres as possible, until eventually fatigue got the better of them and equipment was buried along the trail, including machine guns, ammunition and silver. Even today people sometimes dig up old rusted rifles and other relics of the past, not to mention the bones of those who didn’t make it. In 1974, reports surfaced that the mummified remains of two climbers found on a glacier could be connected with the Long March — what was left of their clothes was said to closely resemble those of Red Army soldiers. But before an official excavation could take place a snowstorm covered the remains and their exact location was lost.
I mentioned this to Joe and he was genuinely upset.
‘Imagine the cold,’ he muttered, looking down at his sandals. ‘And they had only cloth wrapped round their feet for shoes.’
In silence we rode back down the mountain to Jinggangshan and I paid him the few yuan he was asking, plus a bonus for taking me to the holy spring where Mao had once bathed. Later he introduced me to his older brother, Chang, who offered to sell me a replica Mao suit for a princely sum. I declined, telling them that my bag was not big enough to carry such things with due respect. They nodded in agreement and gave me a Mao badge instead.
‘It will bring you good luck,’ said Joe.
Oddly enough, he was right. That night I invited Joe and Chang to dinner at a local yum cha restaurant in Jinggangshan, just off the main square where I had watched the line dancing the night before. I insisted they would be my guests and, though it took some persuading, they eventually agreed. We ate steamed pork buns and dim sum washed down with green tea, until our stomachs bulged. During the course of the meal Chang, who was a little less excitable than his younger sibling, mentioned a period of time spent in the military and my ears pricked up. Like their grandfather and father before them, they had joined the army at an early age, but whereas Joe was in the infantry, Chang found himself in military intelligence, specialising in radar. This helped explain why his English was particularly good. He had studied at the Luoyang Foreign Language Institute, a top academy for the military’s brightest stars. It was the lure of cold, hard cash that had led to him selling Mao memorabilia to Chinese tourists: the military wasn’t a way to get rich and, so, given the option, he’d chosen civilian life.
‘Our grandfather was stationed near here in the 1930s,’ Chang said. ‘His regiment fought to control the local Jiangxi warlords.’
Sensing there was more of a story here, I dug a little deeper and discovered it wasn’t just the warmongering indigenous tribes of Jiangxi that his grandfather had sought to keep in check. Suddenly Joe was a little quiet, as his brother explained how the regiment had also been instructed to force the Long Marchers into the mountains and let the freezing cold do their job for them.
‘So your grandfather was with Chiang Kai-shek?’ I asked.
Chang nodded and Joe moved uncomfortably in his seat. It was typical of the awful conflicts that occur during civil wars, when even families can be at odds with each other and then struggle to deal with the enmity that remains. Although in Chang’s case he had no such problem; it was only Joe who was in denial. Chang depicted his grandfather’s military career as noble, while Joe was embarrassed by it.
‘He sounds like a great man,’ I said after a while, trying to ease the tension. ‘What happened to him?’
Chang picked out a dim sum expertly with his chopsticks, popped the morsel into his mouth and motioned for Joe to answer. When his brother ignored him, Chang swallowed hard and said:
‘Went to Taiwan.’
In 1949 when the Communists finally defeated Chiang Kai-shek, the General escaped with his two-million-strong army, plus many national treasures and a prodigious amount of gold, across the water to Taiwan and formed the Republic of China, which, to this day, is still not recognised by mainland China and, according to all reports, never will be. The Communist Party simply looks upon Taiwan as a province awaiting repatriation, either peacefully or militarily.
Fascinated by how the brothers seemed to sit at either end of the political table on this subject, but hoping to help maintain the peace, I asked Joe if he thought Chairman Mao had forgiven those soldiers who fought for the Nationalists.
‘Our great and illustrious leader was famous for his big heart,’ he replied, tugging at his shirt for good measure.
‘So he would greet your grandfather in the same way as he would you?’
Joe lifted his head and looked around the restaurant at the dozen or so tables where Jinggangshan families were gathered. It was as though he were imagining the Great Helmsman striding through the door at that moment, arms wide open to embrace his loyal soldier.
‘Yes, I’m sure he would,’ he reasoned.
‘No doubt he would read some poetry too,’ I ventured.
‘He was a great poet,’ said Joe thoughtfully.
There was a moment’s pause, and then, without introduction, he got to his feet and recited one of his favourite Mao poems. When he was finished everyone in the restaurant applauded and Joe’s cheeks were flushed with patriotic pride — the same rich red colour as his national flag. Chang provided the English translation. He said the poem was called ‘Jinggang Mountain’, and it celebrated a famous battle Mao had fought against the Nationalists, apparently not far from where Joe and I had stood that day.
Below the hills fly flags and banners,
Abov
e the hilltops sound bugles and drums.
The foe encircles us thousands strong,
Steadfastly we stand our ground.
Already our defence is iron clad,
Now our will unites us like a fortress.
From Huang yanggai roars the thunder of cannon,
Word comes the enemy has run away in the night.
When he was finished I applauded too and, for a brief moment, in my mind’s eye, glimpsed the ghostly spectre of Mao’s tall figure in a light grey suit, buttoned up to the neck, with his signature black locks slicked back from a receding hairline, smiling imperiously as he stood by the door to the restaurant.
‘You liked it?’ asked Joe.
‘I did,’ I said.
My apparition was still there, waiting by the entrance to a typical yum cha restaurant in a far-flung corner of a massive country still largely devoted to his memory. Poet-philosopher, warrior chief, consummate schemer, dreamer, the Great Helmsman — all these descriptions were true. The only department in which he didn’t measure up, it seemed, and for which few held him accountable, was as a father. In that sense Mao had been an abject failure.
I heard the door to the restaurant slam angrily and, when I looked in that direction again, Mao’s ghost was gone.
Card players at a café, Ruijin
FIFTEEN
I WOKE BEFORE FIRST LIGHT AND STOLE A MARCH ON THE DAY, getting a few hours of walking in before a slow dawn chased away the night. I could have waited a few days for a bus to take me south, but it felt better to hit the road on foot, even though it was still dark and the distance to the villages of Ruijin and Yudu, the twin cradles of Communism, was still nearly 300 kilometres. I preferred the openness of the road to a cramped bus any day, but in China distances were so vast it was impractical to avoid public transport completely.
The path rose and fell underneath my worn leather boots, as the trees on either side of me rustled in the darkness. There was a fluttering of small wings overhead, then more and more, until suddenly the air around me was filled with an unseen horde of bats on their way back to a nearby cave. Something else leapt from the roadside further up and sprinted into the bushes opposite, making strange chirruping noises as it crashed through the undergrowth. Soon after there came a splash of water from the same direction, and then an animal scream that was violent and short-lived.
These sounds of the wild were eventually replaced by those of the human world: a buffalo being urged on by a farmer in the fields below the road, a dog barking from behind a village fence somewhere, and voices — two men coming towards me out of the gloom. For a brief moment I considered ducking into the bushes on my left, but I decided against it after realising they were probably as aware of me as I was of them. Indeed, they had stopped talking and had slowed their pace, concentrating their attention on the figure that was coming towards them and straining their eyes to make out whether it was friend or foe.
A voice called out, ‘Who’s there?’
I replied with the typical greeting in Mandarin, ‘Ni hao’ — ‘Hello.’
By now we were no more than two metres apart and I could see they were trappers, carrying large cane cages on their backs and smaller ones in each of their hands. We stopped short and sized each other up. Satisfied I wasn’t the police, who might have wanted a bribe to let them keep their illicit cargo, their mood switched from defensive to curious and I soon found myself facing a barrage of questions, most of which I couldn’t decipher. I told them who I was and where I was going, which is pretty much what anyone in the world wants to know when they meet a stranger, and sure enough this did the trick. In the growing light I could see them smiling and nodding. The one nearer to me offered the contents of his smallest cage. I declined and they laughed and took a few steps closer. That was when the smell hit me, the smell of wet fur and fear. Many pairs of eyes looked out from those cages, and I wondered what it would cost to buy the lot and set them free. But the two hunters were indifferent and began to move off, clearly wanting to get to the markets before sun-up, when the first buyers would arrive to barter for ingredients for that day’s menu. I watched them depart, their bamboo backpacks of wildlife swaying to and fro as they walked, until the darkness swallowed them whole.
Eventually the dawn came, revealing that the road I was on skirted a thick forest of mature camphor trees and lofty bamboo, through the upper branches of which the sun’s rays were now passing, sending arrows of light to the leafy forest floor below. Birds chattered noisily to one another and occasionally swooped to pluck a tasty insect in mid-air. I had the momentary impression that I was looking at a China from centuries ago, when feudal lords held sway over their fiefdoms and used private armies to defend villages and collect taxes. In the early days of Communism, Mao Tse-tung and his men ran the gauntlet of these fierce rulers, either asking for safe passage or fighting for it hand-to-hand. In later years, when Mao’s control was absolute and Communism at its zenith, he exacted his revenge and reduced the feudal lords to the level of peasants. Little mercy was shown.
By midday, I had reached the village of Shengmu in Ji’an county, thanks in part to a ride on the back of a local farmer’s cart. It was powered by an old tractor and was filled with bales of straw. My job was to sit on top, along with his two young sons, and keep some weight on the load. We bounced along for an hour like this, fearing the ever-present threat of potholes that might send us flying. Whenever we hit a bump, the farmer would glance over his shoulder to make sure he’d lost neither family nor foreigner nor cargo.
The village was busy with its market day. The sun shone as people from all round the countryside arrived by car, bike and donkey to buy and sell their wares, or even find a mate. My farming friend was one such type. His wife, the mother of his sons, was dead, which he communicated to me by putting his hands to his ear like a pillow of eternal sleep, and so he hoped to find another partner there. She would have to be hard working, I mused, and, judging by the smell of his breath that morning, tolerant of his love of raw onions.
I like food markets in China because it’s not just food you’ll find there. You’ll almost certainly come upon someone with an old pedal-operated sewing machine who will mend the tear in your shirt or the hole in your bag perfectly. Just as importantly, there will be someone to shave your head or prescribe medical cures for a host of ailments. Sadly, however, like so many other markets in China, this one was also doing a roaring trade in wild animals. There were bamboo cages, like the ones I’d encountered in the night, from which creatures stared out in a display of unremitting fear or spat and yowled with terror. Mere hours ago, these creatures had been living beside a river or stream, maybe under a log. Now they were today’s lunch.
It’s not that I’m a vegetarian. It’s just the way anything that looks even remotely edible in China soon finds itself on the national menu. Never mind the endangered species lists: when it comes to priorities, environmental concerns come a distant second to the dietary needs of the country’s gargantuan population. Of course it’s easy to point the finger and we in the West are not blameless, with our factory farms churning out animals for fast-food burgers. But at least we put some energy into habitat conservation and protecting wildlife. It was maddening to see such rampant consumption without thought for the consequences.
I bent down to one of the cages and found a sad-looking goose, his wings trussed up with string and his feet encased in rubber bands. He didn’t protest as much as the other wild animals when I came near, as if he had long since resigned himself to his fate. A fat goose was going to make a much more attractive meal to a hungry Han, rather than some scrawny creature trapped in the forest that morning, so I figured he wouldn’t have long to wait before being chosen for the chopping block. But it also struck me at that precise moment that, this time at least, I wasn’t going to let it happen. I would make a statement right there and then, by ensuring that this goose stayed uncooked. And that is how I came to meet Errol.
The stall owner
offered to behead him on the spot. I quickly said no, alive was quite okay. So she put him in a plastic bag, still tied up, with his head poking out, and I wandered through the market carrying my new buddy, not entirely sure what to do next. I could have simply let him go on the spot, but he’d have been caught again in minutes. I’d already watched another stall owner, in the act of showing off a live eel to a customer, accidentally drop it into the gutter. The poor thing swam furiously through the dirty ditch for a few metres, but there was nowhere to go. The stall owner jumped ahead and plucked it out of the flotsam and jetsam, thumped it over the head with the butt of his knife and dumped it back in the tank it had come from.
That was not going to happen to my goose. I bundled him under my arm for extra safety and retreated from the market to formulate a plan. Errol said little, except for a slightly uncertain rronk sound that came from deep inside his throat. I thought I’d try to find a room, but it was harder than anticipated. Few places wanted to take in a foreigner and his bird, apparently because of fire safety.
‘No cooking in the room,’ protested one manager.
I attempted to persuade him that I wasn’t going to set fire to his hotel by cooking the bird in the middle of the room, and eventually convinced him that Errol meant more to me than a quick meal. I could stay one night, he said, but there would be an extra charge for the goose. That seemed fair enough.
A Boy of China Page 16