Mao: The Unknown Story

by Jung Chang

  Although he did not get his son back now, Chiang had achieved his goal of bringing the three southwestern provinces under the central government. The Guizhou warlord had been forced to resign, and left the province after being lavishly bought off. The Yunnan governor stayed on and maintained a good relationship with Chiang (for the time being). With his own army now in Sichuan, following at Mao’s heels, Chiang returned there in May to assume control of this strategically important — and most populous — province. Here he spent months of intensive activity to build up Sichuan as his base for war against Japan.

  Mao too had succeeded in his goal. The 2,000-kilometer detour he had forced upon the Red Army had bought the time to establish his puppet Lo Fu as de facto Party chief, and Mao had secured his grip on the Party leadership as the man behind the throne. Chang Kuo-tao’s chances had been critically reduced. Mao’s machinations had reduced the ranks under him by tens of thousands, to around 10,000 hungry and exhausted men in rags. But no matter to him. The army could be rebuilt.

  As always, Mao regarded the Kremlin as his only hope if he was to conquer China. Now that he was nearer than ever to Russian-controlled territory, he began to talk about requesting “matériel and technical assistance” from Soviet Central Asia. His paramount aim now was to ensure that Chang Kuo-tao, who outgunned him by about 8 to 1, did not gain access to Soviet arms — or the Kremlin’s ear — before he did.

  Lack of majority support for Mao is also clear from the fact that when he later referred to those who had supported him at Zunyi, he never produced more than two names — those of his two co-conspirators.

  Soviet military attaché Lepin secretly advised on the best supply routes. The former CCP leader Li Li-san was sent from Moscow to a secret GRU base on the Chinese border, to try to establish radio contact. The US vice-consul in Yunnan, Arthur Ringwalt, spotted the danger, and warned Washington in early January 1935: “The situation appears to be increasingly serious for China. Unless a miracle happens, the Communists will force an entry into Szechwan [Sichuan] by one route or another. [Then] it will be only a matter of time before the well-known plan … to establish communications with Soviet Russia will have been carried out. Then it will be useless to talk further about communist suppression.”

  Another person who made the point was, surprisingly, a very important British spy for Russia, Kim Philby. In an article about Tibet published in Nazi Germany in 1936, Philby emphasized the strategic significance of the Chinese Reds linking up with the Russians in the northwest.

  Chang Kuo-tao was so successful mainly because the part of Sichuan he entered was in the grip of some exceptionally heartless warlords who squeezed the population so hard that even in towns there were many people who could not afford clothing, and were walking round completely naked. There had been several peasant uprisings just before Kuo-tao’s army arrived, and his forces had been able to enlist recruits en masse. He also had a military chief, Xu Xiang-qian, who was arguably the most talented of the Chinese Communist commanders.

  Normal procedure on the March was to leave the wounded with local families, with some money. The fate of those left behind was a matter of luck. Chang Kuo-tao’s branch left behind some women soldiers who were too ill and weak to go on. When Party historians went looking for them half a century later, they found they had endured atrocious experiences. The locals, whose families had suffered at the hands of the Reds, took it out on them, and tortured some of the women to death by driving wooden stakes into their vaginas and cutting off their breasts. To survive, some women married more affluent peasants. But when their own Party came to power they were designated as “landlords,” and denounced, humiliated and discriminated against for life. In 1985, in bitter November cold, the few seen by Party historians, by then in their sixties and seventies, were so poor that they did not wear shoes to the encounter, as these were considered too valuable to endanger for such a non-essential occasion.

  Chiang and his officers were so mystified that they thought Mao wanted to attack the capital of Guizhou, where Chiang was, to try to get Chiang himself. But the Reds sped past without stopping.

  †In Guizhou, where the population was dirt-poor, the Reds had recruited many thousands of young men.

  Giving birth on the March was a nightmare. One woman who had gone into labor had to walk to the night’s destination with the baby’s head dangling out. Next day before dawn, weeping at leaving her baby in a bundle of straw in the empty hut, she had to walk on, and fainted wading through an icy river. Her women comrades found a table to carry her on. The wife of Teng Fa, the then head of the Chinese KGB, had a most painful delivery. Writhing in agony, she cursed her husband for making her pregnant. Teng Fa was fetched, and stood uncomfortably in the little hut, hanging his head. Mrs. Po Ku would say half jokingly: “On the march, I prefer a donkey or a horse to an old Male!”

  A picture of it features on the cover of the 1985 book The Long March, by Harrison Salisbury, which purveys the official post-Mao version.

  Nationalist plans on the 28th described the task of the unit, under Yu Song-lin, as “to defend Kangding,” a city about 50 km away as the crow flies. The fact that Yu’s troops were not at or near the bridge is demonstrated in a report of 3 June by the governor of the region.

  When Peng De-huai, the most honest of all the Communist leaders, was asked about the Dadu crossing by a British writer in 1946, he gently, but very clearly, refused to endorse the myth. “It’s a long time ago, and I cannot remember all of it. There were so many rivers — the Gold Sand river, the Hsiang river, the Wu and the Yangtse … I cannot remember very much, but I remember the people falling into the water …” He did not say one word about fighting, or a burning bridge. It seems that two or three people did die at the bridge, but only when they fell off while repairing it, when one old plank suddenly snapped, as Mrs. Zhu De and the 93-year-old local we interviewed remembered. For good measure, the Reds constructed an ancillary myth about more heroism around the other crossing of the Dadu River, at Anshunchang, some 75 km to the south. Although this ferry crossing was extremely exposed and it took the troops a whole week to cross, with spotter planes circling overhead, there was not a single battle casualty here, either.

  14. LONG MARCH III: MONOPOLIZING THE MOSCOW CONNECTION (1935 AGE 41)

  WHEN THE TWO Red armies joined up in June 1935, Mao’s force — known as the Central Red Army, as it came directly under the Party leadership — was in a state of ruin. It had started the Long March with 80,000 men. Now it was down to some 10,000—one-eighth its original strength. The surviving remnant was on the verge of collapse. It had lost nearly all its heavy weapons, and its rifles had an average of only five bullets each. As Zhu De lamented to Chang Kuo-tao, who was an old friend, this army “had been a giant before, but now it’s only a skeleton. It can no longer fight.”

  In contrast, Kuo-tao’s army, 20,000 at the outset of their own march, had quadrupled to an impressive 80,000. They were well fed, well equipped with machine-guns and mortars and ample ammunition, and superbly trained.

  It was thus from a position of considerable strength that Kuo-tao met his colleagues. He was “a tall, stately man about forty,” Otto Braun recalled, who “received us as a host would his guests. He behaved with great self-confidence, fully aware of his military superiority and administrative power … His cadres … controlled most of the area’s meager resources, which were essential for the care of tens of thousands of Red Army soldiers … He was every bit as ambitious as Mao …”

  The moment had arrived when Kuo-tao had to be given a job, and he had an extremely strong case for being made head of either the Party or the army. Mao did not want him to have either. It was showdown time. Mao seemed to be at an overwhelming disadvantage, and yet he emerged from the link-up with Kuo-tao as the victor, thanks to the three political figures who had been with him and formed the core Party leadership, the Secretariat — Lo Fu, Chou En-lai and Po Ku.

  As far as Lo Fu was concerned, he had no hope of h
olding on to his position as Party No. 1 without Mao. Moreover, when Mao had decided to drag the army off on a detour, Lo had given his consent rather than risk losing his newly won position. Chou En-lai had colluded with Mao all the way. The one who on the face of it might seem to have had the least to lose by switching sides was Po Ku, who had been elbowed out of his No. 1 position by Mao and Lo Fu. But he too was heavily compromised in the destruction of the army; he had put up no effective struggle on its behalf, and was now very much a broken man.

  So, although there was now a chance to gang up with Kuo-tao and ditch Mao, the top men chose not to do so, out of personal interest. If they now blamed Mao for everything that had gone wrong, this was bound to raise the question: Where were you? This would imply that there had been a better alternative which they had failed to grasp. It would make them seem unfit to be leaders. Out of self-protection, they stuck with a simple story-line: that the Central Army had been wrecked by more powerful Nationalist forces. To bolster the image of their own resilience, they tried to denigrate Kuo-tao’s army, which had been highly successful, in spite of the heavy fighting it had faced. As they could hardly fault its military performance, they resorted to political smear tactics, saying it suffered from “warlordism” and “political backwardness,” and had “a bandit style.”

  These accusations enraged Kuo-tao’s army. The two camps descended into a mud-slinging contest, in which Kuo-tao’s men had a virtual walkover. The wretched state of the Central Red Army was plain for all to see, and the scorn poured on it clung to the whole of the leadership.

  “How can such a Centre and Mao Tse-tung lead us?” was the widely voiced sentiment. This resentment was directed against the entire Center, not just Mao, and this was a key factor in throwing the three core leaders — Lo Fu, Chou En-lai and Po Ku — together with Mao, which gave him a majority in the Secretariat of 4 to 1 against Kuo-tao.

  The trio felt it was “sink or swim” with Mao as their own officers and soldiers started to vent their outrage as well. There was a flood of complaints about military “incompetence” and indifference to the welfare of the rank-and-file. “They didn’t know where they were running … so aimlessly,” officers told Kuo-tao, and “should have let the army rest and recover.” The rank-and-file, in turn, voiced bitter feelings about the way their leaders had abandoned the wounded, and turned ordinary soldiers into “sedan-chair bearers” for the VIPs and their wives.

  This charge — that Mao and the other leaders had “sat in sedan chairs” all through the March — was the sorest issue of them all. A Long Marcher told us how angry the ordinary soldiers had felt: the leaders “talked about equality, but they lounged about in litters, like landlords. We talked in whispers …” The soldiers were told that “the leaders have a very hard life. Although they don’t walk, nor carry loads, their brains and everything have it much rougher than we do. We only walk and eat, we don’t have cares.” Not surprisingly, this low-level sophistry failed to assuage the rank-and-file.

  Not having to walk made the difference between life and death. Not a single one of the wounded or the weak with a high enough rank to qualify for the Cadres’ Convalescent Company died on the March. Nor did any of the leaders who were carried, even those who were badly wounded. While the elite all survived, sheer exhaustion killed many of their much younger litter-carriers, nurses and bodyguards, who were often in their teens — and some as young as twelve or thirteen. One statistic reveals the stony-hearted hierarchy and privilege under Mao’s dominion: the Central Red Army now had almost more officers than soldiers.

  WITH THE CONNIVANCE of his three Party allies, Mao offered Kuo-tao only the token position of deputy chairman of the Military Council, which was now a hollow shell, not even a rubber stamp. Kuo-tao and his subordinates demanded that he must lead the army. Mao responded with a stony silence. During the stand-off, the troops began to run out of food. The two armies, totaling about 90,000 men, were crowded into a Tibetan highland region that was just able to sustain its own population, but whose economy was completely thrown out of kilter by the advent of this huge force. “We were reduced to fighting for food with the local population,” one Red Army officer recalled. Marchers cut down fields of barley, depriving the locals of their livelihood for the coming year. Mao, characteristically, treated this plundering — which probably made the difference between life and death for many thousands — as a joke: “This is our only foreign debt,” he said to his American spokesman Edgar Snow, in a manner that Snow described as “humorous.”

  The Tibetans, not surprisingly, hated the Reds. Excellent marksmen, they launched guerrilla attacks from the forests. Long March diaries recorded: “There were a lot of corpses along the way, mostly stragglers killed by the barbarians.” “Came across three stragglers (cut down by barbarian cavalry).”

  In the end, Mao had to let Kuo-tao have the top army job. On 18 July, Kuo-tao was appointed Chief Commissar of the Red Army, “directly commanding all the armies.” But Mao kept control of the Party leadership.

  AT THE BEGINNING of August 1935, a detailed plan was agreed for going north — in order, as Mao put it, to be “close to the Soviet Union, where we can receive help … planes and artillery.” The plan envisaged going first to Gansu, and then sending a unit on to Xinjiang, which was a Soviet satellite, “and building airports and arsenals.” It was during this operation to move north that Mao machinated to scupper Kuo-tao’s chances of making contact with the Russians before he himself did.

  The agreed plan involved dividing the army: the main force under Kuo-tao and Zhu De would seize the town of Aba and then go on north, while a smaller force, known as the Right Column, was to take a different route farther east, via Banyou. By Mao’s choice, he and the Center went with the Right Column, which contained the bulk of his old troops, under Lin Biao and Peng De-huai, though these now answered to two of Kuo-tao’s commanders. Nine days after Kuo-tao and his force had departed, on 15 August, Mao cabled Kuo-tao in the name of the Politburo, dictating a total change of course: “the main force must go via Banyou,” i.e., follow the same route as the Right Column. Mao was thus tearing up the agreed plan and demanding that Kuo-tao and the many tens of thousands of troops in the other column reverse course and come to him.

  Kuo-tao replied on 19 August that he was very near Aba, where there was plenty of food, and that he planned to take the town in a couple of days. He argued hard for sticking to the Aba route, pointing out that there were “three or four parallel roads to the north, with plenty of people and food,” whereas “the road to Banyou is totally unknown.”

  Mao used his control of the political leadership to put pressure on Kuo-tao. Next day he sent Kuo-tao a resolution in the name of the Politburo, saying that his forces were too far to the west. The route Kuo-tao had taken by a unanimous decision was suddenly described as “extremely disadvantageous,” and Kuo-tao himself was accused of being “opportunist”—for “choosing the road with fewest obstacles.” Using a label like “opportunist” was a way of threatening to condemn him with a political charge.

  Mao’s aim in all this was to keep himself always ahead of Kuo-tao. This would also mean that Kuo-tao and his army would be dragged through calamitous conditions. By now Mao had discovered that, whilst Kuo-tao’s route was plain sailing, his own route, via Banyou (which he had chosen himself), was actually a dire one. It went through the most murderous terrain, a huge swampland that would take at least a week to cross and whose hazards included: no inhabitants — and therefore no food and shelter; an atrocious climate — dark fogs, lashing storms and hail; few trees, so really hard to make a fire; and treacherous, quicksand-like, and often poisonous mud that could swallow a person up with one false step. All this at an altitude of over 3,000 meters, and a night-time temperature below zero even in August.

  Instead of trying to conserve the strength of the Red Army, Mao insisted that Kuo-tao must face the same evil conditions — after him. Having fired off his menacing ultimatum, Mao floated into the sw
amps on his litter, sacrificing a huge pile of books, including the complete set of his favorite Twenty-four Histories, before departing. By the end of the first day, Long March records show that the troops had trudged “with not a single person in sight, crossed 5 rivers, 3 of which had no bridges,” and were “soaked to the skin … sitting huddled in the rain for the night.” Braun has left a vivid description of what most endured:

  A deceptive green cover hid a black vicious swamp, which sucked in anyone who broke through the thin crust or strayed from the narrow path … We drove native cattle or horses before us which instinctively found the least dangerous way. Grey clouds almost always hung just over the ground. Cold rain fell several times a day, at night it turned to wet snow or sleet. There was not a dwelling, tree, or shrub as far as the eye could see. We slept in squatted positions on the small hills which rose over the moor. Thin blankets, large straw hats, oil-paper umbrellas or, in some cases, stolen capes, were our only protection. Some did not awaken in the morning, victims of cold and exhaustion. And this was the middle of August!.. Outbreaks of bloody dysentery and typhus … again won the upper hand.

  Another Long Marcher remembered: “I once saw several men under a blanket and thought they were stragglers. So I tried to rouse them.” The men were dead. There was little to eat: “When a horse died, we ate it: the troops at the front ate the meat, the ones at the back gnawed the bones. When everything ran out, we ate the roots of grass, and chewed leather belts.”

  Mrs. Lo Fu saw the corpses of friends all the time … On the sixth day, I got dysentery. I couldn’t worry about embarrassment and just squatted down and shat all the time. Then I would tie my trousers and rush to catch up. I spent two days like this, and gritted my teeth to get through. For seven days and nights, it was a world of no human beings. On the eighth day, when I walked out of the swamp and saw villages, people, cattle, and smoke coming out of chimneys, when I saw turnips in the fields, my happiness was beyond words … Those seven days and nights were the hardest time in the Long March. When I arrived in Banyou, I felt as if I had just returned to the human world from the world of death.