THE PIT OF TEN THOUSAND CORPSES
A brisk morning breeze blew across the lower reaches of the Yangtze River, flowing up the eastern slope past Xiang Chenglei as he stood alone at the edge of a moat surrounding the Wall of Victims. To his left and right, rising from granite flagstones surrounding the memorial, bronze statues depicted the suffering: a man carrying dead and maimed relatives away; a dead mother sprawled on the ground, her baby suckling her breast; a family fleeing toward safety. In front of Xiang, one memory rose taller than the rest—a twenty-foot-high statue of a mother mourning, her face turned skyward as she held a dead child in her arms. Xiang dropped his eyes from the mother’s face, and as he turned east toward the orange glow on the horizon, it was fitting his next thought was that of the rising sun.
Japan, the Empire of the Rising Sun, was guilty of atrocities difficult to comprehend. In December 1937, Nanjing—the capital of China at the time—fell to the Japanese Imperial Army. In the following six weeks, over 300,000 unarmed men, women, and children were slaughtered by Imperial soldiers; firing squads and beheadings were common. Mass graves were prevalent throughout the city, and beneath Xiang’s feet lay the remains of ten thousand corpses. During the Second Sino-Japanese War, which raged from 1937 to 1945, the Japanese Imperial Army slaughtered 23 million ethnic Chinese.
Even more repulsive was that the atrocities weren’t simply the result of out-of-control army units. Murder and rape of civilians was endorsed by the Japanese High Command, even sanctioned and encouraged by Japan’s supreme leader. Emperor Hirohito’s “Three Alls” edict, promulgated in 1942, directed the Japanese Imperial Army to “kill all, burn all, and loot all.” After the war, the Japanese people and their emperor refused to acknowledge the magnitude of their cruelty, choosing to minimize what had occurred. Perhaps a sincere apology after the war would have assuaged, to some degree, the resentment harbored by the Chinese people; provide some measure of comfort to mitigate the hate.
Comfort and Hate. As a child, the word comfort—even the concept—was forbidden in Xiang’s home. His mother loved him, he knew, but she would never comfort him. She wouldn’t speak the word or even allow it to be uttered in her presence. It was not until Xiang became a young man that he learned the gut-wrenching reason for his mother’s aversion to the word. Although Japanese atrocities during the war knew no bounds, many attractive Chinese women were spared; they had their uses. As the Japanese Army occupied eastern China, Comfort Houses stocked with women of every Asian ethnicity were established to satiate the physical desires of the Imperial solders. One of those young women was Xiang’s mother.
Only fifteen years old, Lijuan was raped day and night for months. Serving up to thirty men each day, Xiang’s mother came to truly understand the Japanese meaning of the word comfort. After a year of sexual slavery, she was discarded in a back alley in Nanjing, gaunt and listless, her body and mind broken. She was one of the lucky ones. Only twenty-five percent of comfort women survived, with the vast majority of those unable to bear children due to the injuries inflicted and venereal diseases contracted.
Japan had never formally apologized for the atrocities committed against the Chinese people, and some government leaders even asserted the Nanjing massacre had never occurred. Halfhearted attempts had been proffered by various government officials, but true dogenza had never been performed. That, however, would be rectified, and the emperor of Japan would soon bow before Xiang, his forehead touching the ground at the feet of China’s supreme leader.
A movement at the edge of the memorial caught Xiang’s attention. Striding across the gray granite slabs, Huan Zhixin approached, flanked by two members of the Cadre Department in their black suits.
Huan stopped next to him. “Everything is ready, General Secretary. Your helicopter awaits.”
Xiang’s eyes lingered on the bronze statue of the mother holding her dead child. After a long moment, he turned away, joining Huan as they moved toward the waiting aircraft.
* * *
The rhythmic beat of the Harbin Z-15’s twin engines filled Xiang’s ears as the helicopter sped northeast toward the coastal city of Yancheng. Xiang peered through the window as the outskirts of Yancheng appeared through a break in the clouds. A moment later, he caught his first glimpse of the Nanjing Army Group, comprised of the 1st, 13th, and 31st Armies, which would spearhead the assault on Japan. The 130,000 men were assembled in formation on the parade field below, bleeding over into the adjoining grassland. The mass of men in their green camouflage uniforms stretched to the horizon, the red pendants at the head of each unit fluttering in the breeze.
Xiang had traveled the 120 kilometers from Nanjing in silence, collecting his thoughts. The North Sea Fleet, held in reserve up to now, had been augmented with twenty-four Yuan class diesel submarines and what remained of the East and South Sea Fleets. Xiang knew Admiral Tsou had stood before his men yesterday, inspiring them to serve the people. This morning, it would be Xiang’s turn to stand before the Army, explaining why he had been forced to make this decision. Explaining why many of them would not return home.
The helicopter landed gently on the black tarmac. An escort was waiting, headed by General Zhang Anguo, who would command the three army groups leading the assault. The stocky General with short-cropped, silver hair saluted as Xiang stepped out of the helicopter. Xiang returned his salute, then extended his hand.
Zhang’s grip was firm and strong as he greeted his president. “The men are assembled for your review. Loudspeakers have been placed throughout the formation so every man can hear your words.” Xiang nodded his appreciation, walking between Huan and General Zhang toward the platform. Like Xiang, Zhang and Huan were quiet, all three men lost in their own thoughts.
Xiang ascended the ceremonial podium and stopped behind a wooden lectern near the front, while Huan and General Zhang took their seats in a single row at the back. Xiang placed his hands along the lectern’s edges, feeling the strength of the purple-brown zitan wood. He hesitated before he began, searching for the strength that had suddenly become elusive. The strength to send even more men to their death.
Japan was a more formidable opponent than Taiwan, but with the United States Pacific Fleet unable to assist, success was inevitable. The price China would pay, however, was unclear; how many of the men standing before him would die on Japan’s shores was unknown. He told himself again his actions were justified, that the prosperity of the many required the sacrifice of the few. America had given him no choice.
With the destruction of the Pacific Fleet, the only threat to China’s flank was the Japanese Navy. By themselves, Japan could be dealt with. Unfortunately, although the Pacific Fleet had been destroyed, America had two fleets, and its Atlantic Fleet would soon be on its way. Once China’s true intent was revealed, Japan and America would undoubtedly join forces. That was something Xiang and Admiral Tsou would not allow. In the process, a long-standing wrong would be rectified.
Xiang lifted his gaze to the mass of men assembled across the countryside, then issued the traditional greeting his troops were expecting.
“Welcome, comrades.” His voice boomed from the loudspeakers.
“Greetings, Leader!” The 130,000 men responded in unison, their voices reverberating across the field.
“Comrades, you are working hard!”
“To Serve the People!”
As the echo of the Nanjing Army Group’s response faded, Xiang was filled with pride. The men standing before him were no less dedicated to their country than he, willing to sacrifice their lives. But as they prepared to land upon the shores of Japan, Xiang must ensure his men understood the reason for their assault. This was not about revenge. He would not let his men commit the same atrocities their parents and grandparents had endured.
As he began his speech, he told himself again that this was an honorable task. He—as well as the men standing before him—truly Served the People.