by Weijian Shan
I was convinced that the top leadership of the country did not know what was going on in these remote areas, where the local officials routinely abused their powers and ruined the lives of young people. I could not believe that the wise leader Chairman Mao would allow this situation to continue if he knew what was going on. Premier Zhou Enlai would certainly put a stop to this waste of lives if he knew.
I had an idea. How about writing a letter to Chairman Mao and Premier Zhou and reporting what was going on in Inner Mongolia? Surely they would intervene. They might change the leadership of the Army Corps. Perhaps the whole thing would change.
I shared my idea with Li Rongtian and Hua Zhenhao. Hua was not a member of our inner circle, but he was a friend of Li and myself. Both of them were more senior than me by schooling. Whereas I only finished elementary school, Li had finished junior high school, and Hua had completed one year of senior high school. Both were considered among the few more-educated people in our company. Both liked to read and think as well. Hua was a somewhat private person and did not socialize much. It seemed that he only cared to talk with those whom he considered intellectual equals. I trusted them. I knew that they, too, were concerned with larger issues, like the future of the farm, the future of the Construction Army Corps, and ultimately the future of the country.
They saw eye to eye with me. Together we started to draft a letter.
We wanted to keep it short, knowing the leaders would be too busy to read a long letter. We would simply report the serious problems we had seen. We debated whether the letter should be anonymous or bear our signatures. We decided to sign our names. If, upon reading the letters, Chairman Mao or Premier Zhou wanted to investigate what was going on within the Army Corps, it would help if they knew how to find us. We were, of course, concerned about reprisals, if the letters got into the wrong hands. But we figured nothing could be much worse than the status quo. On the other hand, why should we fear reprisals when we were doing the country a service? We made up our minds.
We worked hard on the letter. Night after night, we would discuss and debate every point, revising it again and again. Finally, the letter was complete, and I copied it onto clean paper carefully.
The theme of the letter was simple: We were concerned about the country and would like to draw your attention to a grave matter. The letter combined calm analysis with a passionate plea: This situation at Construction Army Corps should not be allowed to continue. In the letter, we reported that the Construction Army Corps was nothing but evil. In fact, we “credited” the Construction Army Corps with “three evils.” First, we said, the Army Corps was an evil to the young people. There was no education of any kind. We were not learning anything. Moreover, we were not producing anything. We mentioned the meager crop yield. It was a total waste: of productive assets, of valuable resources, and of our youth.
Second, we argued, the Army Corps was an evil to society. Look at the harm we had brought to the area around us. We did not have enough to eat, so some of us would go out to steal from the peasants, everything from chickens and dogs to pigs and cattle, anything that was edible. We would fight with peasants for irrigation water, for land, and for the right to fish and cut reeds in the lake. The peasants hated us so much they said that we were worse than the Nationalist troops, or even bandits.
Third, the Army Corps was an evil to the state. We did not produce anything and could never generate enough to cover our expenses and costs. Every year, if proper accounting had been taken, it would show we operated at a big loss. This had been going on for four years since we had arrived. Without any drastic measures, this situation was expected to continue indefinitely, at great cost to the government.
Therefore, we pleaded, “Please, ninlaorenjia”—or “you old man,” referring to Mao with an expression of great respect, as age is associated with wisdom in Chinese tradition—“please do something about it. We soldiers of the Construction Army Corps need help. Please help us and please save us. Please save the peasants and other people around us. Please save the state from the harm of the Army Corps.”
We turned the letter into two, one to Mao, and one to Zhou with similar content. We signed and sealed the letters in silence, as we were keenly aware of the risks we were taking. But we were not quite sure how to get such a letter to the great leader himself or to the premier. We knew enough not to mail the letters directly from our barracks. We were certain they would be intercepted and would never find their way out. The letters could clearly be read as an indictment against the leadership of the Army Corps, and that would bring all kinds of reprisals against us. We decided it would be best to send the letters to some people in Beijing and ask them to mail the letters out from there.
I thought of asking my parents. I did not think that my father would do it, but my mother might. She had just returned to Beijing after spending the past three or four years in two separate labor camps. (These camps were referred to as May 7th Cadre Schools, so named because of a letter written on that date in 1966 by Mao, who suggested cadres should also be sent to the countryside to do manual labor to reeducate themselves.) I was hesitant to ask her to take the risk. I knew she would worry about my safety. Who else could help? Liu Xiaotong’s father came to mind. He once openly complained to me, railing against the entire Army Corps system. I thought he might be willing to help.
In the end, we decided to send one copy of the letters to Xiaotong’s father and another one to my mother, asking them to post the letters from Beijing. We would send the letters from the regiment’s sub-headquarters, where there was a mail collection box.
The next day, I took out a horse from the company stable when nobody was paying attention, as none of us had the privilege of using one. Without saddling him, I jumped on his back and spurred him to a gallop for the short ride. I was excited about what this letter would bring, and I wanted to catch the last postman of the day.
Near sub-headquarters, the horse and I barreled around a tight corner at the walled courtyard of the medical clinic, still at a gallop. Just as we rounded the corner, I saw an electric pole dead ahead. It was too late. It seemed inevitable that the horse would crash into the pole. I reined him in hard.
Startled, the horse swerved and reared up on his hindlegs. I was not prepared for this move. The horse reared to his full height, front legs flailing, and I was thrown to the ground. When the horse returned to earth, one hoof glanced past my face. I turned to avoid it, too late. The hoof’s blow hit my right eyebrow as if someone punched me. There was no pain.
My right hand reflexively went up to my eyebrow and came away bloodied. Then a lot of blood came, covering my hand and streaming down my face. I could not gauge how badly I was hurt, and I still did not feel the pain.
I retrieved the package of letters now thrown on the ground and calmed down the horse. Horses are sensitive animals, and I felt grateful to this one, even though I was hurt; he must have withdrawn his hoof as soon as he felt my face beneath it, or otherwise my skull would have been crushed. I needed to seek medical attention quickly, and I was right outside the walled yard of the medical clinic. I could not ride anymore, but before I let the horse go, I climbed onto its back, stood up on his back with my hands on the wall, scrambled over the wall, and jumped into the garden of the clinic. This would save time, instead of walking around the walls to go into the clinic through its front door. I still wanted to mail the package.
A few nurses were in the courtyard, tending Chinese medicinal herbs growing in its garden. They must have been shocked to see someone jumping down from the wall with a bloodied face. I quickly assured them that I only wanted some medical help.
The doctor who saw me said that the wound needed stitches. I refused. The last time a barefoot doctor had stitched me up after my head was badly cut in a fight, it left a scar on my left temple. No, I said. Just patch me up. I could not trust the medical skills of those quack doctors who were as poorly trained as I was.
They did as I asked, and the wound e
ventually healed with hardly a trace, or I might have had trouble finding a wife.
Emerging from the clinic with my head heavily bandaged and my right eye covered, I remembered my mission. Feeling like a zombie, I walked to subheadquarters, and into the mailbox I dropped the package on which so many of our hopes rested.
As luck would have it, I ran into Old Duan, the deputy commander of our company, as I was heading back to camp on foot. He was on horseback. Old Duan was the last person I wanted to see at that moment. He stopped and asked me what happened. I dared not tell him that I was thrown off a horse because he would know that I had stolen one. “Nothing,” I replied, as nonchalantly as I could, “I bumped into something by accident,” which of course was the honest truth. The deputy commander must have been amused to see me like that, because he laughed and rode away. I knew he did not buy my story, and he must have thought that I had been in a fight.
I dragged myself back to the barracks. Despite my injury, I felt relieved and happy that I had sent the letters out.
It was October 8, 1973.
Much later, when I went back to Beijing for a visit with my family, I learned Xiaotong’s father did not send the letters out, fearing they would bring us trouble. He sat me down and had a long conversation with me about being careful in our actions. Although I understood and listened respectfully, I was determined that the top leadership should know about what was going on in the Gobi.
It was my mother who posted our letters. First, however, she did something quite characteristic of her. She carefully copied them out, every character, in her own calligraphy. She was a professional secretary, and she thought my handwriting was not neat enough for such an important letter to state leaders. After making sure everything was proper, she sent them out by regular mail.
It would be some time before we heard of the letters again. They did bring me trouble. They brought trouble to all of us. But we would only find out later.
Chapter 15
Pigs Don’t Fly
At about 6 o’clock in the morning on November 9, 1949, just five weeks after Mao declared the founding of the People’s Republic of China, a Convair CV-240 passenger airplane took off from Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport. Within about 20 minutes, 11 more aircraft—3 Curtiss C-46 s and 8 Douglas C-47s—followed it into the sky, one after another, in the first rays of the morning sun. The flight plans submitted to the control tower showed destinations that included Taipei, Haikou, and Guilin, all Nationalist-controlled cities that had yet to be captured by the advancing Communist forces.
The 12 aircraft belonged to two Nationalist-controlled airlines, the China National Aviation Corporation (CNAC) and Central Air Transport Corporation (CATC). In the lead plane sat two important passengers, Liu Jingyi, CEO of CNAC, and Chen Zhuolin, CEO of CATC.
Once airborne, all 12 aircraft made a big circle, altering the direction of their flight toward the north, in the direction of Communist- held China.
Led by the two CEOs, the aircraft crews were either defecting (as the Nationalist government called it) or leading an uprising (as it was hailed by Beijing). They and their aircraft were headed to join the new Communist government in Beijing. They had to fly in and out of the clouds, staying far out of range of the Nationalist air force, to avoid being shot down. The crew of one aircraft was so nervous that one of its pilots mistook a bird for a fighter plane sent to chase it.
After eight hours of flight, the CV-240 touched down at a military airport in the western suburbs of Beijing. The other 11 aircraft flew to Tianjin, a city adjacent to Beijing, and landed safely. The defectors sent out an open telegram to announce their decision to sever ties with the Nationalists and to serve the new government. They were all given a hero’s welcome. Zhou Enlai, the newly appointed premier, hosted a banquet in their honor.
Soon after this incident, more than 4,000 Hong Kong employees of the two Nationalist airlines announced their decision to switch their allegiance to the new Beijing government as well and left the British colony to return to the mainland.
These defecting crewmembers and employees, as well as the aircraft they flew, became the foundation and backbone for the first airline of the New China.
The incident is known in Chinese history as “the uprising of the two airlines.”
* * *
“Thank you. Thank you,” a gray-haired man said gently as I poured the leftover soup of boiled pumpkins into one of his two buckets. Then he lifted them up with a pole slung across his shoulders and walked with his load slightly swinging back and forth to the next squad. He was collecting leftovers for his pigs, as his job was tending pigs in the Pig Squad.
His name was Yi Kong. He was one of us and yet he was much older, older than our parents.
Among the teenagers and young people of our company was a group of older adults from the Civil Aviation Administration of China, the CAAC. They had been “sent down” to reform their ideological outlook. Once they had been airplane pilots, technicians, and administrators; the youngest was in his thirties and the oldest, Yi Kong, was nearing the retirement age of 60. Some of them had been affiliated with the old Nationalist regime before the revolution. Others had been sent down because they belonged to a discredited faction of Rebels within the CAAC.
Everyone knew and respected Yi Kong. He usually wore an old leather flight jacket, an unusual and precious item if ever there was one. He always had a smile. He was tall and handsome with a wrinkled face. Despite his age, his back was as straight as a military officer’s.
He worked hard at his job. To collect food scraps, he placed empty gasoline barrels in front of each platoon’s barracks. When the barrels were filled with leftovers from many meals, typically the tasteless boiled pumpkins we were so tired of, he would go around to collect them with two buckets on a shoulder pole and carry the scraps back to the pigpens.
Almost every day we would see him, either carrying the buckets or herding the pigs. He carried a small stick to guide them, looking for a place for them to graze. Since there was not much food for people, there was never enough for pigs. They usually had to eat grass or whatever little vegetation they could find. They were so skinny that they looked more like wolves than pigs, and their stomachs hung to the ground because they had been fed with so much liquid.
Because Yi Kong was kind to everyone and because of his age, we all called him Old Yi to show our respect. Even the company leaders, who usually treated all their subordinates condescendingly, used this honorific to greet him.
Old Yi did not socialize much, even with the others from the CAAC. At meals, he would come to the dining area with a tin bowl to collect his portion, and then take it back to his room near the pigpens and eat alone.
I heard many stories about the man. He had a “complicated” background. He had served in the Nationalist air force. After the Anti- Japanese war, he became a pilot working for the national airline under the Nationalists. He earned fame as one of only few Chinese airline captains in Old China—almost all the rest were Americans. The other one later became the captain of Premier Zhou Enlai’s special plane.
In 1949, the Nationalist government fled the mainland, and all its civilian aircraft were flown to Hong Kong. Old Yi was disgusted with the corrupt Nationalist regime and saw hope in the Communists. He and some others decided to defect. With this group of pilots and the aircraft they had brought back, the new government built its first airline, the predecessor of the CAAC.
I got to know Old Yi when I was a barefoot doctor. He came to the clinic, complaining of runny nose and a fever. It turned out that he was allergic to pollen, and his allergies were so bad that he had developed bronchitis. I was able to give him some relief from his allergies. I liked him immensely, and it made me feel good to help him.
One day, Old Yi said that some of his pigs were sick. They ate little and seemed listless. Since there were no veterinarians in the Gobi he thought that I might be able to help. So I went with him to check on the pigs.
Several of my “
patients” were confined to one pen, lying in a corner. It did not take me long to note that all the sick pigs were coughing. It was the first time I had seen animals cough, and they did so in very much the same way humans did. Their symptoms pointed to an upper respiratory tract infection, which was surprising to me considering how pigs sniffed the muddy or dusty ground with their snouts all the time without ever getting sick. There would be zero chance for a human not to catch bronchitis or pneumonia by doing the same. It befuddled me how they got sick in the first place, but nature works in mysterious ways, and bovine influenza occurs from time to time.
As with humans, my first professional move was to take their temperature. The only way to do this with a pig was to insert the thermometer into its rectum. It became immediately obvious that the first patient did not like this. The pig became agitated and broke away from the pen, thermometer and all. My friend Huang Shurong, who was now a kind of assistant pig-keeper, was about to chase the animal and subdue it. But Old Yi stopped him, saying it would be even more troublesome if the thermometer broke inside the pig. We decided to let it go, knowing that it would come out sooner or later.