A landing on the Yangtze, north of Shanghai would also set the stage for a deep thrust south, encircling the Chinese troops inside the city. This was a classic Japanese tactic. The military leaders of Japan were ardent disciples of German strategic thinker Alfred von Schlieffen, who had advocated encirclement as the ideal military operation. Schlieffen had based this on his study of the battle of Cannae in 216 B.C., when the Carthaginian general Hannibal had annihilated a superior Roman army using a much-admired pincer movement. It allowed victory despite numerical inferiority, and nothing could be of greater appeal to Japan, an island nation with a limited population. As a result, flanking movements, as described by Schlieffen, had become fundamental doctrine in Japan and had found their way into all army manuals and directions.111
Even for those who had not studied Japanese doctrine, an attack north of Shanghai was not a far-fetched proposition at all. It was exactly what the Japanese had done in early 1932 to eventually gain the upper hand in the first battle of Shanghai. Indeed, the fortress of Baoshan still carried the scars of that small war. Even the press corps suspected a repetition of this action. On the afternoon of August 22, a correspondent visiting the Japanese marine headquarters in Hongkou asked the captain guiding them around if there was any truth to rumors that Japan was in the process of landing troops on the Yangtze riverbank, with the aim of carrying out an encircling operation similar to the one five years earlier. The captain replied this was very unlikely. “We prefer to develop new plans,” he said.112 The exact opposite was true, as the next few hours would show.
CHAPTER
4
“Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”
AUGUST 23—SEPTEMBER 10
AS HE APPROACHED THE LIGHT CRUISER YURA, MATSUI IWANE SAW how its gray hull reflected the orange flares on the riverbank as shell after shell tore holes in the velvet curtain that the night had thrown over the Huangpu. The thunder produced by the naval artillery pounding the Chinese positions drowned out all other noises, and it appeared as if the Japanese general’s dinghy was moving across the water without the slightest sound. It was 2:00 a.m. on August 23, and the first soldiers were scheduled to jump off their landing barges and wade ashore in just one hour. Only time would tell if the men, many of them in early middle age torn from cozy civilian lives just weeks earlier, still had the fight in them from when they were younger.1
The dinghy slowed down and came to a bobbing rest alongside the Yura. As Matsui ascended to the cruiser’s deck, Rear Admiral Nagumo Chuichi,2 commander of the 8th Cruiser Division, stood ready to receive him. Nagumo was in charge of the imminent landing, but even though he had his hands full, it was no surprise that he would take time out to personally welcome Matsui on board his flagship. One was an army man and the other a sailor, and they should have been separated by the traditional rivalries between the two services, but they were in fact old acquaintances. Both had been active in the Greater Asia Society. Matsui considered himself lucky that he was able to work with a man like Nagumo at such a critical juncture.
Matsui climbed the ladder to the conning tower. From there he would get a much better view of the action as it unfolded. A dense roar rolled across the river from the town of Wusong, where explosions followed each other in rapid succession. This was where the 3rd Division was to land. From further afield came the fainter sound of the shelling of Chuanshakou, a town on the bank of the Yangtze that had been picked as the 11th Division’s landing site. The naval gunners had been at it since shortly after midnight. The previous day, many of the Japanese vessels had sailed as far south as Hangzhou Bay to harass the Chinese troops and force them to spread their attention thinly along the entire coast. However, with so little time left before the landing, there was no point in pretending any longer that it was going to take place anywhere else.
It was less than 48 hours since the decision had been made to launch two amphibious assaults near Shanghai, instead of just one. Matsui had initially favored a plan to land both divisions at Chuanshakou. From there, they would, in one sweeping move, cut through thinly defended countryside far to the west of Shanghai, trapping tens of thousands of Chinese soldiers in and around the city. The Third Fleet had a different and bolder plan, calling for the 11th Infantry Division to stick to the landing at Chuanshakou, but placing the 3rd Infantry Division in a much tougher spot, at Wusong far closer to the massive Chinese troop concentrations at Shanghai. The intention was to apply pressure to both the front and the rear of the Chinese forces. The plan might just work but it could also come to an immensely costly conclusion if the operation at Wusong ran into determined Chinese resistance. The naval officers who had devised the plan were aware of how risky it was, and to sugar the pill and make it easier for their army counterparts to swallow, they offered to put more than 500 elite marines at their disposal.
The discussion for and against the two plans had raged throughout much of the day on August 21, and the army and the navy had seemed incapable of reaching an agreement. In the end, Matsui had taken the decision for them. He was a military man who had spent almost his entire life in uniform, but he also had keen political instincts. He knew it was important to maintain good relations with the naval commanders, and besides, their more aggressive plan could mean speedier relief for the Japanese citizens trapped in Shanghai. Therefore, in the end the navy had carried the day.
Matsui had met with the two divisional commanders on the morning of August 22. He liked them both. Fujita Susumu, commander of the 3rd Division, impressed him with his stoic attitude. The 11th Division’s Yamamuro Monetake, on the other hand, was determination personified. He was going to put up a good fight. Still, Matsui did not want them to be rash. The navy’s plan, he had explained, would not be easy to implement. Caution was of paramount importance. “Watch out for Chinese soldiers disguised as civilians, and also keep an eye on the mood of Shanghai’s population,” he had admonished the two. “Soldiers and officers must constantly stay alert to the situation around them. You have to be careful with the water and farm products you requisition. Make sure they are not poisoned by the Chinese.”3
The day before the landing had been busy. The two divisions had arrived at the Saddle Islands, the small archipelago off the Yangtze estuary, aboard troop transports and had transferred to smaller vessels. Meanwhile, ships of the Third Fleet had sailed up and down the Yangtze and the Huangpu, enjoying a nearly unobstructed view of the landing zones. Summer rains had caused the two rivers to swell, and in many places the water level was above the surrounding countryside, which was protected by high embankments. The Japanese had been able to see large stretches of verdant rice fields, with small canals and creeks running through them in intricate patterns. There were also clusters of farm buildings, some surrounded by solid walls. It was terrain ideally suited for defense.
Matsui had moved from one warship to the next throughout the day. His restless energy had disguised the fact that regardless of what he did now, success or failure was no longer in his hands. However, he could take comfort in the knowledge that he was no stranger to the units he was commanding. When he had been a young second lieutenant nearly 40 years earlier, his first assignment had been in the 6th Regiment, now part of the 3rd Division. Less than a decade earlier, he had been in command of the 11th Division for 28 months. It was as if everything was coming together for Matsui on this warm August night.
Shortly after midnight on August 23, the marines who were to form the bulk of the first attack wave at Wusong arrived in a convoy of steamers from Shanghai. They were a welcome sight as they would spare the 3rd Division from being the first to step ashore. They hastily boarded their landing craft, small vessels especially developed for operations such as this. As the naval artillery barrage reached a crescendo, the boats moved across the waveless water.
With minutes to go before the landing, the ships in the river turned on their searchlights in order to blind the defenders, bathing the riverbank in a ghostly blue. The lights outlined a semicircle around the la
nding zone and showed the naval artillery where to direct its shelling. “Whenever a Chinese machine gun fired, it immediately attracted the attention of the Japanese gunners and was silenced. Trench mortars onshore were aimed at the approaching invaders, but all rounds hit the water with a plop, causing no damage.4
At 3:00 a.m., the first landing craft reached the bank. It dropped anchor, the ramp splashed down, and the marines waded ashore. They climbed the dike, which was 15 feet high in some places, and surveyed the terrain in front of them. Suddenly, a burst of machine gun fire ripped through the night, cutting down several of the marines. It was from a Chinese position a mere 50 yards away. The marines attacked with fixed bayonets. As they rushed across the short stretch of open field, they heard an explosion. Someone had stepped on a landmine. More explosions followed. But there was no turning back. They swarmed over the Chinese trench and engaged in a brief hand-to-hand struggle. After a few seconds the position was theirs.5
Further ahead were yet more Chinese defenders, but the marines had gained momentum and quickly pushed them back. As the Japanese had hoped, and intelligence had suggested, the soldiers put in charge of guarding that strip of riverbank were poorly performing paramilitary troops. The path was opened to their immediate objective, a military road running parallel with the Huangpu. As the marines set up positions, the 3rd Division disembarked at the water’s edge. By 8:00 a.m., the divisional command stepped ashore as the last unit to arrive. Naval pilots were bombing and strafing roads further inland to delay enemy reinforcements. The landing had been a complete success.
The news that Matsui received from the 11th Division was also good. It had been scheduled to start landing at 2:00 a.m., but moving onto the smaller landing craft had taken longer than expected, and the first soldier from the division did not step ashore at a berth north of Chuanshakou until 3:50 a.m. Even so, as the soldiers moved towards the outskirts of the town, they had discovered only weak enemy resistance. Chuanshakou had been held by a single Chinese company. By 7:00 a.m. most of the first wave had disembarked.6
Matsui was pleased. Everything had gone according to plan. Actually, it had gone better than he had allowed himself to expect. Casualties in the two divisions amounted to little more than 40. Matsui credited the spirit of his soldiers. He also quietly thanked the Heavens, which had proven unusually cooperative; it had turned out to be a nearly cloudless morning, making it easy for him to take advantage of his superiority in the air. Once it was clear that the operation had been a success, Matsui called his staff together. This was a cause for celebration. They lifted their glasses of rice wine and shouted a toast for the emperor: “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”
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Zhang Zhizhong received the phone call at 5:30 a.m. at a small village near Nanxiang, where he had recently moved his headquarters. At the other end was Liu Heding, commander of the 56th Infantry Division, which was in charge of the defenses of the Yangtze riverbank north of Shanghai. Liu informed Zhang that an enemy force of unknown size had landed in the vicinity of Chuanshakou. No other information was available at the time, as heavy bombardment had cut off all phone lines to the landing area. However, Zhang knew more than enough already. It was clear that a new front was opening up. His job had suddenly become immensely more complicated.
As most communications were down, Zhang concluded there was not much that he could do in Nanxiang and so he decided to go to the 87th Infantry Division’s command post in Jiangwan, a town north of Shanghai. It was closer to the landing area, and he was likely to get a better idea there of what exactly was happening. He set out in his staff car, but did not get very far. It was a bright summer morning, and Japanese planes filled the sky. His vehicle attracted their constant attention, and his driver was repeatedly forced to take cover. Zhang realized he was getting nowhere and decided to leave the car behind and continue on foot. He soon encountered a private on a bicycle. The soldier got off to salute, and then asked with a snide expression in his face: “What’s that? Does the commander have to walk now?” Zhang Zhizhong did not even bother to reply. He snatched the bicycle out of the surprised soldier’s hands, jumped on it and steered towards the frontline.7
By the time he arrived, it was almost 9:00 a.m. Only then was he informed that the Japanese had landed not just at Chuanshakou, but also at Wusong. The situation was even more critical than he had thought. Wusong was closer, and to put out that particular fire, he immediately dispatched half the 87th Infantry Division and a regiment from the Training Brigade, an elite unit that had just arrived from Nanjing. As for the area around Chuanshakou, it was evident that the 56th Infantry Division alone would not be able to cover the back of the Chinese forces fighting in Shanghai. Therefore, Zhang Zhizhong put the 98th Infantry Division in charge of the defense of most of the Yangtze riverbank that was under threat.8 Meanwhile, he also sent marching orders to the 11th Division, which had recently arrived in the Shanghai area with Deputy War Minister Chen Cheng. It was to move towards Luodian, a town a few miles from the landing zone at Chuanshakou. The division’s commander tried to object. “The moment we raise our heads, we’re getting bombed. How are we going to get there?” Zhang Zhizhong insisted. “After all,” he said, “I myself made it all the way from Nanxiang to Jiangwan.”9
The Japanese got there faster. While the main landing force was still fighting for control of the town of Chuanshakou, it dispatched a small unit of a few hundred men down the road to Luodian. The march under a blazing August sun was wearing on the reservists, and once they had arrived in the town and encountered almost no resistance they immediately set up camp, doing little to prepare defenses. That made them easy targets. Advance units of China’s 11th Infantry Division arrived south of Luodian in the afternoon and even though it was somewhat shaken by air raids along the way, it decided to attack immediately. It was a short fight. Within an hour the Japanese had been repelled.10 A map found on a dead Japanese officer had Luodian penciled in. This showed to the Chinese, if they had ever been in doubt, that the town was a major objective.11
The Japanese had good reasons for seeking to capture Luodian, just as the Chinese had excellent reasons to try to keep it. The German advisor Falkenhausen insisted that given the overall strategic situation in the Shanghai area as of late August, the town was the key to control of the region. Possession of Luodian would mean control of part of the road south to the town of Dachang and, a little further along the same road, Shanghai proper. Luodian also straddled the road to Jiading, a major town five miles to the west, which in turn was the gateway to the city of Nanxiang, close to the strategically vital railway line connecting Nanjing and Shanghai. “Luodian is the most crucial strategic point at the moment,” Falkenhausen wrote in a confidential report.12
As if to confirm Luodian’s importance, the Japanese reacted to the setback they suffered at the hands of the Chinese 11th Division by hastily organizing a massive counterattack. After securing their right flank against a possible Chinese assault from the north, they sent part of their main force towards the town. They staged a three-pronged attack, with several hundred soldiers in each column. The infantrymen were accompanied by tanks and mountain guns. The Chinese quickly realized that if they faced the assault head-on, they would not stand a chance against the better-equipped Japanese.
Instead, the Chinese defenders set up positions along the roads leading to the town, launching small-scale ambushes to harass the Japanese as they advanced. This slowed down the attack, but did not stop it, and the Japanese were able to enter Luodian for a second time that day. The Chinese reacted quickly, concentrating all available troops inside the town in an effort to intercept the Japanese. Bloody street fighting ensued and lasted well after sunset. It was the type of close combat in which the Chinese were at least the equals of the Japanese, if not their superiors. Eventually, the Japanese columns had to withdraw, leaving behind scores of dead and three burning tanks. Long after dark, shots could be heard in the flat countryside around Luodian as Ch
inese troops pursued the retreating enemy.13
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August 23 was Hu Guobing’s birthday, but that was the last thing on his mind. It was still early morning when his regiment was ordered to pack up and get ready to move out. The Japanese enemy had landed at Wusong, less than five miles north of the regiment’s bivouac near the town of Jiangwan just outside Shanghai, and must be beaten back. War had come quickly to Hu. It was less than a week since he had been in Nanjing, guarding the capital, but not really exposing himself to any danger other than the occasional Japanese air raid. Then suddenly, four days earlier, his regiment had been ordered to board the train for Shanghai.14
The first hours of the nearly 200-mile ride from Nanjing to Shanghai had gone fast enough. The troops had been protected by the darkness, and they had not had to worry about air attacks. Once day broke, the ride had become bumpy. Every time a Japanese plane was spotted over the horizon, the train had stopped. It had been 4:00 p.m. by the time they arrived 30 miles west of Shanghai. From there, the Japanese mastery of the air made it inadvisable to go on by train, and the regiment was ordered to march through the night to cover the last distance to Jiangwan. When they reached their destination on the morning of August 21, they dug in and began to wait.15
Hu Guobing was a member of the Chinese Army’s self-conscious elite. At 23, he was a junior officer in the Training Brigade, a unit set up two years earlier at the urging of Hans von Seeckt, the chief German advisor who had had a defining influence on the formation of the new Chinese Army earlier in the decade. Seeckt had wanted the brigade to function like the Lehr or “training” units of the German Reichswehr. It was meant to form a nucleus of experienced officers who were to act as instructors of other new units, while also allowing officers from elsewhere in the army to circulate through and acquaint themselves with the most recent developments in tactics and technology.16 The Training Brigade was the core of China’s modernized army, which was to eventually have reached 60 divisions. However, war had intervened, and the brigade had been thrown into battle where it was expected to perform as in peacetime: as an example to others.
Shanghai 1937: Stalingrad on the Yangtze Page 11