The Last Empress

by Hannah Pakula

  After Lashio, Stilwell left for Chungking, stopping overnight at Kunming, where he met Claire Chennault. Both men had originally been told that Chennault would be the ranking commander of the air force in China, but Chennault had been pushed down the ladder of command by the appointment of Stilwell. “Had a long talk with him and got him calmed down,” Stilwell said. “He agreed to induction [of the American Volunteer Group] into the American Air Force† and said he’d be glad to serve under me. That’s a big relief.”

  After a bumpy two-hour flight—“Chinese passengers all puking”—the American general arrived at Chungking. Ignoring Chinese protocol, he insisted on climbing up the 365 steps from the landing strip on the Yangtze River to his assigned residence. Stilwell moved in with a staff of eight, including Colonel (later Brigadier General) Frank Dorn, his aide and closest associate. A modern concrete home originally built by T.V. for himself and taken over by the government, the residence had three stories, a roof terrace, a pool, and a view of the river. It came complete with a staff of twenty-nine—including seven gatesmen, two gardeners, four houseboys, one cook, two kitchen boys, three general servants, and four men to haul water to the tanks on the roof. The servants had been supplied by Tai Li, head of the Chinese Secret Service, and at least once during his residence there, Stilwell found agents going through the papers in his desk. The comfort of his quarters, it would seem, had little to do with the hazards of his assignment. To defend the Burma Road, Stilwell would have to find a modus vivendi among the British, Chinese, and U.S. governments. To succeed in everything else, he would have to serve three conflicting authorities: China’s generalissimo, the commanding British officer in the region, and last, but most important, the U.S. government.

  While he was in China, Stilwell kept what he called “The Black Book,” in which he jotted down his thoughts and reactions. “I’m a worrier,” he wrote before arriving in China. “I’m always imagining dangers, & experiencing them mentally. Many never occur, but those that do I’m mentally prepared for, so maybe it pays.” Unfortunately, there was no amount of intelligent worry that could have prepared this American general to deal with the job before him.

  PART FIVE

  1942–1943

  33

  Among the Old Hundred Names, as the common Chinese people often called themselves, to become a Soldier was the worst fate that could overtake a man, equivalent to being sold into prostitution for a woman.

  —OLIVER J. CALDWELL

  STILWELL’S FIRST official meeting with the Chiangs took place the day after his arrival in Chungking. He told the generalissimo that he thought Burma could be saved if his soldiers would go on the offensive, and Chiang promised that they would set up a joint staff meeting the next day. “It was a relief to find that the G-mo contemplates command in Burma for me,” Stilwell wrote in his diary. “… He seems willing to fight, and is fed up with the British retreat and lethargy.… Madame made some caustic remarks about the British, and their broken promises. She kept after me after the conference to talk about Chennault. Worried for fear he would be pushed aside.” Buoyed by the meeting, Stilwell wrote that Chungking wasn’t “half bad when the sun shines,” except for the inflation, which was “fantastic.” Under Kung, prices had taken off on a dizzying upward spiral. As one observer put it, referring to the author of the inflation, “No-one ever saw a fat Chinese below the rank of Minister of Finance.”

  While he waited for the promised word from Chiang, Stilwell made plans for the Chinese army’s campaign in Burma, not realizing that the generalissimo never ordered his troops to take the offensive. According to Tuchman, the Nationalist army was supposed to number 3 million men broken into three hundred divisions, but the fighting ability of these divisions varied greatly, since the G-mo gave the best arms, equipment, and uniforms only to the ones he liked best. While a favored division might be supplied with regulation tan uniforms and chartreuse leggings, another might have only boots and leg wrappings, while still others had to march in straw sandals and sleep five men under one blanket. Those who could get together the enormous sum of $100 Chinese dollars* could bribe their way out of military service. The others were marched to camp for three weeks’ basic training, tied together with rope around their necks to prevent escape, and given nothing more than old rice and pickled vegetables to eat en route. Death by starvation on the road was not infrequent. There were also epidemics of typhus, smallpox, dysentery, beriberi, and something called “relapsing fever” borne by lice. When a soldier dropped out of his column to relieve himself, he was accompanied by an officer with pistol at the ready, just in case the man tried to get away. Saving lives was not a priority among commanders, or as one of them put it, “The one thing we have plenty of in China is men.”

  Chinese divisions were usually short of ordinary foot soldiers, since payment came through the commanding general, who could pocket what was left over after paying the men under him their salaries of $16 to 18 Chinese dollars* per diem. Thus, while the commander of a division might show a roster of 10,000 men, for whom he received money and supplies, he might have as few as 5,000 to 7,000 bodies to feed. Corruption was rampant among both commanders and officers, and, according to White and Jacoby, the man who was “probably responsible, more than any other man except Chiang Kai-shek,” for this state of affairs was General Ho. “Payrolls were padded; rice rolls were padded; the abuse became so flagrant that a general’s graft was finally recognized as his right.” Stilwell’s chief aide, Frank Dorn, was appalled: “Chinese higher commanders and staff officers are stupid, self-seeking, irresponsible and incompetent. Leadership in any sense of the word does not exist. The supply system is so mismanaged and irresponsible as to be beyond description.” Dorn found small-arms ammunition, hoarded by the officers for as long as eight years, “so incrusted with filth and corrosion as to be useless, while warehouses nearby are stocked with tens of millions of new American ammunition [sic].” Worse, White and Jacoby reported that “Chinese officers treated their soldiers like animals.” They could be beaten, even killed, “at a commander’s whim”; less lethal punishments included flogging until the bones showed and cutting off ears.

  The fear of bearing bad tidings prevented the generalissimo from being told the truth about the appalling conditions that existed in his army. As late as the summer of 1944, Chiang was driving along a country road when he saw an army officer leading recruits roped together and prodded by soldiers with bayonets. The G-mo was so angered that he beat the officer until one of his bodyguards rescued the man. Clued in to what it was like for these poor conscripts, Chiang called in the general in charge, beat him, and had him executed the next year.†

  After waiting three days for Chiang’s plan for a Burma offensive, Stilwell received an invitation to dine at the Chiangs’ home. He was the guest of honor; the other guests were clearly frightened; and everyone could see the boots of the Secret Service men peeking out from under red curtains. “They told me to stay after dinner ‘for a few moments,’ ” he wrote in his diary. The few moments turned into two hours, during which the generalissimo, echoed by what Stilwell called “a stooge staff general,” lectured Stilwell on the situation in Burma. “ ‘If the British run away,’ Chiang contended, ‘the Japs will get to Mandalay and crucify us.’ I showed him the solution, but stooge jumped in and made a long harangue about how right Chiang Kai-shek was. I let them rant.” When May-ling asked Stilwell what he thought, he said that he “preferred the G-mo’s first plan… ATTACK.” Two days later, at a second conference with Chiang, Stilwell tried to explain why Burma was more important to China than it was to Britain. All Britain wanted was to protect India, he explained. “If China should lose Burma, the communication line between her and the world is cut.”

  But Chiang wanted Stilwell to go to Burma to ascertain whether the British would fight, whether they would give China the gas they had promised but not yet delivered, and whether they were expecting the Burmese people to hold Mandalay for them, in which case China
would not send troops. “What a directive,” Stilwell wrote in his diary. “What a mess. How they hate the Limeys. And what a sucker I am. Well, at least, Chiang K’ai-shek is sticking to one part of the agreement. Never before has a foreigner been allowed any control over Chinese troops.”

  The Chinese soldiers who had been promised to Stilwell were mostly elsewhere when he arrived in Burma, except for the 200th Division. The Japanese had almost encircled the 200th but in so doing had left themselves open to counterattack, and Stilwell wanted to bring two divisions of Chiang’s well-equipped Fifth Army down from the North to rescue them. His plan depended on the ability (or desire) of the British to hold the front and the quickness of the Chinese in moving south. The British had little idea of what they were supposed to do, while the Chinese were averse to any concentration of soldiers needed for an offensive, since they thought in terms not of what they could do but rather what they were risking in terms of arms and material.

  Stilwell established his headquarters at Maymyo, a hill station about 3,000 feet high, the summer capital of Burma, surrounded by pine groves, grasslands, and a lake. When he introduced himself to the governor-general as the commander of the Chinese armies in Burma, the gentleman expressed some surprise, particularly when General Tu, commander of the Fifth Army, introduced himself under the same title. “Ah, Your Excellency,” said Tu, “the American General only thinks that he is commanding. In fact, he is doing no such thing. You see, we Chinese think that the only way to keep the Americans in the war is to give them a few commands on paper. They will not do much harm as long as we do the work.”

  In the middle of March, Stilwell flew back to Chungking to try to convince Chiang to move his troops. “We had a battle,” Stilwell wrote in his diary, “and every point he set up I knocked down.” The next day, buoyed up by four Chinese generals who thought he was right and May-ling, who told him to “keep it up,” he saw Chiang again. “Stubborn bugger. But he gave in a bit.… In a month, if nothing happens, maybe we can take the offensive.” The generalissimo’s brain, it seems, was riveted on the capital city of Mandalay, which lay two hundred miles behind the Allied line of defense and was militarily insignificant.

  Before Chiang could change his mind, Stilwell flew back to Burma. Although General Tu had agreed to send two divisions to back up the 200th, his soldiers had been sent to Burma with no rations, rail transportation, or fuel for their trucks—all of which had been supplied by the British. Moreover, a raid by two hundred Japanese bombers caught both British and American planes by surprise. The former retreated to India without bothering to inform their commanding general, and the American pilots, unable to keep even a few planes in the air, left as well. That night Stilwell wrote Stimson to say that it had taken too long to get Chiang to agree to move his armies and that the delay had “fatally compromised any chance we might have had here in Burma.”

  During the following week, Stilwell made “a frantic effort” to bring one Chinese division down from the North in order to break through the Japanese troops threatening to encircle the 200th Division. After four days of “mysterious” railway delays, Stilwell ordered the troops to take the offensive—not once but twice. Nothing happened. All Stilwell’s orders went to General Tu, then to a second man, and finally to another Chinese general with a secret radio set connected to the generalissimo in Chungking, who decided if and when they should be obeyed. Moreover, every plane that arrived from Chungking held a box with letters from May-ling containing warnings and tactical advice from her husband. When Stilwell ordered 150 trucks, he got 50, since the chief of supply, who had 700 trucks at his disposal, was using them to take military supplies to private warehouses in China. By the last two days in March, Stilwell realized that no matter what he did, there would be no offensive. “The pusillanimous bastards,” he wrote in his diary before leaving for Chungking to have it out with the G-mo once again.

  “Through stupidity, fear, and the defensive attitude we have lost a great chance to slap the Japs back,” Stilwell wrote in his diary on April 1. “… The basic reason is Chiang K’ai-shek’s meddling.… Had he not stopped the 22nd Division when I ordered it in, we would have had plenty of force to cut off the Japs… Had he not gone behind my back to Tu and Lin Wei [Stilwell’s chief of staff], they might have obeyed my orders.… He curses the British for falling back, and does the same thing himself.… His constant interferences… have the effect of completely nullifying my little authority.… The army and division commanders are vitally interested in doing what they think he wants them to do. Why should they obey me?”

  When Stilwell went to see the generalissimo, Madame was with him. The American general said he “threw the raw meat on the floor.… Pulled no punches and said I’d have to be relieved.” Chiang offered to “investigate” and promised that “if the divisional commander disobeyed, I’ll shoot him.” The G-mo’s reaction was seemingly one of concern, and he agreed to replace Stilwell’s chief of staff. “Chiang Kai-shek and Madame are worried,” Stilwell wrote, although he was not fooled by either of them: “I have to tell Chiang K’ai-shek with a straight face that his subordinates are not carrying out his orders, when in all probability they are doing just what he tells them.”

  While he was in Chungking, Stilwell had a chance to observe May-ling, whom he called “Madamissima” in his diary:

  A clever brainy woman. Sees the Western viewpoint. (By this I mean she can appreciate the mental reactions of a foreigner to the twisting, indirect and undercover methods of Chinese politics and warmaking.) Direct, forceful, energetic, loves power, eats up publicity and flattery, pretty weak on her history. No concession to the Western viewpoint in all China’s foreign relations. The Chinese were always right; the foreigners were always wrong. Writes entertainingly but superficially, with plenty of sarcasm for Western failings but without mention of any of China’s little faults. Can turn on charm at will. And knows it. Great influence on Chiang K’ai-shek mostly along the right lines, too. A great help on several occasions.

  Both May-ling and Chiang were with Stilwell when he returned to Burma in early April. After a welcome by the Burma Rifles playing bagpipes, the generalissimo called a meeting with General Tu and Stilwell’s new chief of staff, at which May-ling was present. He told them that Stilwell was “the boss,” that they were to obey his orders “without question,” and that he had “full power to promote, relieve, and punish any officer in the Chinese Expeditionary Force.” It seemed to Stilwell that Chiang “has come around to my contention: i.e., it is necessary to fight where we are.” May-ling spoke up to say that “this is just what I’ve been telling them from the beginning, and if they’d done as I said, we’d have been better off.” She left Stilwell a jar of marmalade and a letter saying “We are back of you.… I am at the other end of the line.… You have a man’s job ahead of you but you are a man—and shall I add—what a man!”

  There were many journalists in Chungking taking pictures of Stilwell and the Chiangs arm in arm. “Before I have a chance to get my feet on the ground, a flood of crap is released, to justify which I would have to be in Rangoon within a week,” Stilwell complained to his diary. “What a sucker I’ll look like if the Japs run me out of Burma.” Clare Boothe Luce was there, writing a cover story for Life magazine that was published a couple of months later. She wanted to know if Stilwell’s talks with the generalissimo had been a success. “Yep, yep, yep, yep. The Gissimo handed it to everybody including his own generals straight.… So did I. And Madame translated it all straight too. Without pulling a punch. Yep. Everybody took it right out of the spoon.”

  Chiang told Stilwell that his authority would be confirmed in the form of a seal with his official title to stamp documents to make them valid. But when the seal arrived a week later, it bore the title of chief of staff of the Allied Armies instead of the promised commander in chief of the Burma Expeditionary Force—a switch that made Stilwell, in the eyes of the Chinese soldiers, an adviser rather than their commanding officer.
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br />   During the Chiangs’ flight back to China, the Japanese sent eighteen planes to try to do away with them. Many years later, May-ling described their trip to a reporter:

  When we were ready to take off, there was no escort, so we had to fly back without. Just as we were airborne, we received the message “thirty-seven Japanese planes on your tail.”* There were only five parachutes, so the crew gave one to the president, one to me and the other three to high ranking generals. My maid began to cry and I told her not to worry. I said parachutes were made to carry 250 pounds and the two of us together didn’t weigh that much. If we had to jump, I said, we would put our arms around each other and both float down with the same chute. She stopped crying and said, “Madame, if I die, I won’t be missed, but you are needed by our people. I would not think of risking your life to save mine.” We were able to fly into some clouds and elude the enemy planes, but I have never forgotten that. The maid… is with me still. She is getting on in years and is sometimes crochety, but I am never cross with her as I am always mindful of that day in Burma and her many years of faithful service to me.

  Perhaps there were clouds and perhaps not. In any case, Li reports that shortly after this touching scene, fifteen fighter planes arrived from Kunming to escort the Chiangs to safety.

  On his return to Burma, Stilwell discovered that Chiang had already sent a division to defend Mandalay. But the Chinese could not bring down the Japanese planes which bombed the fabled city with its many towers, killing four hundred people, destroying the railway station, the hospital, and “acres of streets.” When Stilwell got there five days later, the Burmese capital was still burning, the police and most of the citizens had fled, and the British were struggling to bury their dead. Chiang and May-ling, who arrived the same day, took the occasion to lash out at them. “In all my life of long military experience,” Chiang wrote Roosevelt, “I have seen nothing to compare with the deplorable unprepared state, confusion and degradation of the war area in Burma.” As if to prove the point, the compound in which the Chiangs were staying was bombed as well.