“Poison gas!” The horrified cry was passed down the Chinese ranks. The dense white cloud drifted lazily across the creek, towards the lines of entrenched defenders, who had no equipment to protect themselves against chemical agents. It was just before dawn on November 3, the start of the fourth day of the battle for Zhoujiaqiao. The exhausted Tax Police Division troops had been engaged in numerous battles with the Japanese, but in spite of appalling losses, they had not succeeded in wiping out the bridgehead. Rather, the Japanese had built a pontoon bridge across Suzhou Creek, and had been able to take and hold a small two-storey building near the bank known as “the red house.”91
The Tax Police Division’s commander, Huang Jie, had become a nervous wreck, weighed down by fatalism after Chiang Kai-shek had threatened to court-martial any officer who allowed the Japanese to move to the south bank of the creek. The sight of the ominous cloud was the last straw, and even after it was established it was not poisonous gas but a smoke screen, Huang Jie was a spent force. Yet another Japanese assault was just minutes away, and he was in no shape to lead the defense. “It’s over. It’s all over,” he said matter-of-factly. He grabbed his sidearm and lifted it to his temple. Sun Liren, another senior Tax Police officer, was standing nearby and stopped him. “General, please go back,” he urged him. “We’ll take care of this.”
The battle lasted until 4:00 p.m. By then, the battalion which had taken the brunt of the Japanese onslaught was no longer a coherent unit. Its commander had died, as had all but one of its company commanders, and more than half its platoon commanders. Out of an original strength of 600 men, 200 remained. This was not what the Tax Police Division had expected when it was pulled out of the area south of Wusong Creek late the previous month. They had thought the Dachang position, with its strong defenses, could hold for at least a month or two, more than enough time for the fatigued troops in the rear to rest and get back in shape. Warnings from some concerned officers that the enemy could be at Suzhou Creek within three days and that proper care should be taken to deploy the troops along the creek had fallen on deaf ears.
Therefore, when the Japanese did take Dachang and then marched to the banks of Suzhou Creek, many units of the Tax Police Division were taken by complete surprise. One of the regimental commanders had been so confident that nothing would happen that he had gone to the International Settlement to enjoy life in the dancehalls. When word had reached him of the attack, he had not been able to find his own regiment. Disorganized shooting, more a confused melee than an actual fight, had continued near Suzhou Creek long after dark. A regiment held in reserve had been sent towards the bank to intercept the attackers, only to lose its way and wind up in the crossfire between Chinese and Japanese lines. For a few terrible hours, in near-complete darkness where no one could distinguish friend from foe, the regiment had suffered massive casualties, many due to friendly fire.
On the evening of November 3, after the latest Japanese attempt to cross the creek, the Tax Police Division’s commander ordered Sun Liren to rest. However, Sun Liren felt he had one task left to do. The pontoon bridge that the Japanese had built across Suzhou Creek was still largely intact, even though the Chinese had tried repeatedly to destroy it. They had launched a frontal attack. It hadn’t worked. An attempt to send a swimmer downstream with explosives had also ended in failure. In the end, they had prepared large rolls of cotton, readily available form nearby textile mills, soaked them in gasoline and rolled them downhill towards the bridge, but they had been stopped by Japanese barbed wire.
For his last attempt, Sun Liren had requisitioned a number of sea mines. He planned to float them downhill and detonate them when they were level with the bridge. If this plan was to have any chance of succeeding, he needed the cooperation of engineers. Unfortunately, the engineers he ordered to participate in the late-night mission had not been trained by him, and even though they were below him in rank they felt no inclination to exert themselves for the sake of an officer they did not know. They worked slowly, and by dawn they still had not pushed the mines into the water. In the faint morning light, they made visible targets standing near the bank. A Japanese position nearby spotted them and opened fire. Sun Liren was hit, but he was one of the lucky ones. When soldiers from the Tax Police Division found him later, they had to drag him from under a pile of dead bodies. Doctors found 13 bullet wounds in his body. The battle of Shanghai was over for him.
In the struggle for Suzhou Creek, the Chinese committed the same error over and over again, according to their German advisors. With a few exceptions, lack of independent thinking on the part of junior Chinese commanders prevented them from immediately reacting aggressively to Japanese crossings. This gave the Japanese time to dig in, and subsequent Chinese counterattacks only succeeded after several costly failures, if at all. In addition, the Chinese artillery lacked flexibility and was not trained to adjust plans at short notice, or to choose the ordnance most suitable for the situation at hand. As a result, the Germans argued, “the enemy was given sufficient time to set up a good defense, and even if later Chinese attacks with better support did result in significant successes, they never ended in the complete annihilation of the enemy force that had crossed the creek.”92
The Japanese, however, were equally frustrated, and no one more so than their commander Matsui Iwane. Even if the 9th Division had made significant advances, the 3rd Division remained stuck in a narrow strip of land south of the creek. Hopes of a quick, decisive push southeast to trap the remaining troops in Shanghai and Pudong had not materialized. Not for the first time, the Japanese general was left to ponder how his lofty ambition had collided with harsh reality in the battlefields around Shanghai.
November 3 was the birthday of Emperor Meiji, the 19th-century ruler who had brought greatness to modern Japan. Matsui reminded himself of how he had originally hoped he would be able to celebrate the festival as the conqueror of Shanghai. That had turned out not to be the case, and the long, drawn-out battles west of the city had come as an especially unpleasant surprise. “Now we’ve finally won a small piece of land south of Suzhou Creek, but the south of Shanghai and all of Pudong remains in enemy hands,” he wrote. “That the festival is happening under conditions such as these is a source of boundless humiliation.”93
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Japanese planners in Tokyo had long been concerned that operations in the Shanghai area were not proceeding at all as they had expected when they first started sending troops to the city in August. Even the dispatch of three extra divisions had resulted in only limited progress, and the Army General Staff had started considering whether a more fundamental strategic change was needed in China. The basic question was whether to prioritize the campaign in the north or the battles in the Shanghai area. Japan did not have resources for both, and it had to make a choice. In early October, the officers in the Japanese capital decided that Shanghai must be dealt with first.
This conclusion was partly triggered by fears that the Soviet Union would attack Japanese possessions in northeast Asia, perhaps even before New Year. If this were to happen at a time when a large portion of Japan’s military was still bogged down in the Shanghai area, the result could be catastrophic. It was preferable to resolve the situation near the city in a speedy fashion and be ready to meet the Soviets if they did decide to attack. An extra bonus, as far as some Japanese officers were concerned, was the chance to wipe out once and for all dozens of Chinese divisions, the core of Chiang Kai-shek’s army, at a time when they were helpfully amassed in and around Shanghai, lined up for elimination.94
In an order issued on October 9, the Army General Staff established the 10th Army, the unit designed to tilt the balance in Shanghai. It consisted of the 6th Infantry Division, on deployment in north China at the time, as well as a brigade of the 5th Infantry Division, referred to as the Kunizaki Detachment, and finally, from the home islands, the 18th and 114th Infantry Division.95 To command the new army, Tokyo picked General Yanagawa Heisu
ke, a 58-year-old veteran of the Russo-Japanese War who had retired from active service a year earlier, but was called back to active duty. He was particularly suited to the job, since two decades earlier he had been a military attache in Beijing and an instructor at the city’s army college.
The 10th Army was a formidable force, and while it was being formed, the Japanese planners discussed where to deploy it. They agreed it would have to land behind Chinese lines. Therefore, there were only two possible landing sites: either the south bank of the Yangtze, roughly in the same area where the landing in late August had taken place, or the north bank of Hangzhou Bay. The problem with landing on the Yangtze was that the Chinese had expected a move like this ever since the hostilities of 1932 and had built up robust defenses on both banks, including coastal batteries that could cause serious problems for any landing force, no matter how well protected.96
Hangzhou Bay posed other difficulties. The area was not at all suitable for a large amphibious operation. The flat shore meant there was a broad inter-tidal zone and a fast-running tide, and there was no quiet period when flow changed to ebb. In other words, there was nothing approaching a fixed coastline, and disembarking the troops, a difficult maneuver at the best of times, would be rendered even harder. The terrain beyond the beaches was also far from ideal for a large, modern army. Like other areas near Shanghai, it was crisscrossed by rivers and creeks, and there were hardly any good roads. Still, all this was made up for by one consideration: a landing here would come as a near total surprise to the Chinese. That settled it. Hangzhou Bay was their choice.97
Once the decision to land in Hangzhou Bay had been made, representatives of the army command arrived in Shanghai to consult with local officers. The information they received was that the area was heavily fortified and that there would be significant logistical problems. Even so, they insisted on going ahead with their plan. Matsui Iwane was his usual contrarian self, at least when communicating with his diary. “It would probably be much easier if they landed on the banks of the Huangpu and Yangtze Rivers,” he wrote.98 He thought the operation depended on too many uncertain factors, dismissing it as the typical product of staff officers with no idea about the real conditions in the field. “This plan gives me the impression of a bunch of young people at play,” he wrote in his diary.99
If Matsui ever voiced his doubts, they were ignored. The 10th Army was to land before dawn on November 5. The Kunizaki Detachment was to lead the way, taking possession of a stretch of coastline east of the town of Jinshanwei in the middle of the night. It was to be followed by the 6th Division, with the 18th Division on its right flank and 114th Division on its left. All units were to move north to the Huangpu River at a brisk pace and cross it. A major objective north of the river was the city of Songjiang, a transportation hub for both rail and road. Finally, in the flat countryside west of Shanghai they were to link up with Japanese units marching south, sealing off as many Chinese soldiers as possible.100
Success hinged on catching the Chinese unawares, and therefore secrecy was paramount for the 10th Army as it prepared for its mission. The commanders remembered an old saying, “if you want to cheat the enemy, first you must fool your own men,” and they decided to follow it. Prior to the embarkation of the 6th Division, they handed out maps of Qingdao, a port city in northern China, to give the impression that this was the target of the operation. If there were a leak anywhere, the information that would be passed on would be wrong.101
The convoy carrying the 6th Division left waters off the Korean peninsula on November 1, heading south. The next day it linked up with another convoy carrying troops of the 18th and 114th Divisions from Japan. It had become a sizeable fleet of nearly 200 vessels, and even greater care had to be taken to avoid detection. There were strict bans against turning on any light, and radio silence was enforced at all times. As the ships approached Shanghai they sailed in a long arc out to sea, only steering back towards land as they were level with Hangzhou Bay. The soldiers, who were now informed of their real objective, were filled with excitement, and more than a little apprehension. As they crowded the dark decks, they could see the vague, looming silhouette of the great continent they had set out to conquer.102
CHAPTER
8
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NOVEMBER 5—11
TAMAI KATSUNORI1 WISHED TO BE A GOOD-LOOKING CORPSE. IF HE were to die in battle, he did not want to be found with an ugly, black fringe around his chin. The stubble he was carrying was the result of days on board the transport headed for the China coast, during which the 30-year-old corporal and other soldiers of the 18th Japanese Infantry Division had let their beards grow. Those who had shaved had been forced to pay a penalty of 50 yen. It had just been a silly game to kill time that would otherwise have been spent needlessly on thoughts about what was ahead. Now he no longer wanted to play the game. It was hours before dawn, and an officer had just been to the quarters he shared with his 13-man squad informing them that the landing was imminent. As he got to work with his razor, others did the same. They all wished to be handsome in death.2
“In the boats!” Tamai and his men had ascended to the deck when the order was passed around in lowered voices. As they stared into the night, all they could see was complete darkness. Still, they knew the coastline was just a few miles away, and that a well-armed enemy might be lying in wait. It was important to maintain the element of surprise right until the last moment. Despite their efforts to avoid any sound, the metallic ring of swords, rifles and helmets could be heard as the soldiers, weighed down by their equipment, scrambled clumsily into the landing craft. They sat down uncomfortably, almost on top of each other, in the cramped space. It was so dark that Tamai could not make out any familiar faces. Each soldier was sitting, blinded and mute, all alone with his own overpowering fears.
As the boat started making its way towards the shore, two red lights indicating the landing zone shone out to sea, like malevolent eyes. The faint light of day intermingled with the complete darkness and revealed dozens of other boats moving slowly through the black water. The soldiers felt how the current coming in from the ocean to the right constantly threatened to throw them off course, and how the landing craft operator was struggling to keep steering for the predetermined target area. They were wondering when the enemy would hear the noise of their engines and start firing, and they knew the thin-skinned boat would offer no protection. However, nothing happened. “There is no one in there!” someone exclaimed.
Long before the vessel had reached the shore, it hit the shallow ground. Tamai’s squad jumped over board, landing in knee-deep, ice-cold water. They started a long cumbersome slog in sticky mud, feeling grateful that the enemy remained absent at the moment they were at their most vulnerable. As they crossed the water’s edge and walked onto the wide, flat beach, they suddenly were surprised by a salvo from the left. All fell flat on the ground and continued the advance, wriggling through the gray muck towards the bank, which they could see ahead of them. As they slowly wormed their way forward, the fire from the invisible enemy grew more intense, and a soldier was hit through the thigh. Suddenly, the company commander appeared from behind, walking briskly with drawn sword as if on a parade ground. Tamai and his men felt silly, lying flat on their stomachs. They got up and followed him.
They made it to the bank and took cover behind it. The Chinese defenders who had been shooting at them appeared to have been in positions just above them, but they had fled at the sight of the mass of soldiers appearing out of the morning mist. Only then did Tamai notice how strange they all looked. Covered in mud from top to toe, and with anxiously rolling, bloodshot eyes, they resembled demons. They moved inland in a loose formation across treeless fields, before again taking cover behind a small elevation in the ground. A soldier handed around a bottle of carbonated cider. It tasted so good it almost hurt. The heightened danger sharpened the senses. The colors became brighter.
They heard gunfire ahead and moved up, joining
a group of Japanese soldiers that had surrounded a cluster of houses on a hilltop, occupied by the Chinese. The defenders fired furiously, apparently directed by an observer standing behind one of the windows. Tamai ordered his machine gunner to fire. He raked the houses, which disappeared in a cloud of dust and splintered wood. When the dust settled, the Chinese were no longer firing and the soldier in the window had disappeared. “It is odd how the sound of one’s own guns can be such sweet music,” Tamai thought. “When the enemy is firing, the explosion and the whistle of the bullets seem ugly and vicious in the extreme. But when it is your own fire that you hear, it sounds pleasant, almost friendly.”3
The rest of the day went by in a confused succession of events, as the soldiers moved around with no precise idea of what they were heading for; marching down narrow paths, around small plots of cultivated land and across creeks and canals. When they passed undamaged houses, they set them ablaze to ensure that they were not used to hide snipers or store ammunition. Sometimes the burning buildings burst in huge explosions, showing them that their fears had been well founded. Yet the only Chinese soldiers Tamai saw up close during the first day of fighting were the corpses of infantrymen, lying where they had been killed.
All the civilians had left, almost. In the middle of the day’s ceaseless activity, Tamai passed a farm building with an old woman sitting in front. Near her was a wrinkled old man, and in her lap she had a small girl, possibly her grandchild. As the old woman saw Tamai point his bayonet at her, she trembled with fear. The girl pressed her face to the woman’s bosom. “I’m sorry, but why didn’t you run away in time?” Tamai asked in Japanese. She did not know his language, but he felt she somehow understood. Then he saw what was behind her—wide fruit fields and sheaves of freshly harvested rice stacked in tall piles. The old couple had stayed behind to protect their home and their land. Tamai could not bear the sad expression on the woman’s face. He walked on.
Shanghai 1937: Stalingrad on the Yangtze Page 26