9
granddad tapped the wall with his knuckles. sunlight streaming in through the windowreflected off the gaomi statuette on the highly polished kang table. the window was covered bypaper that grandma had cut into strange, ingenious designs. in five days everything in the placewould be reduced to ashes in a terrible battle. it was the tenth day of the eighth lunar month,1939. granddad had just returned from the highway, his arm in a sling and reeking of gasoline.
he and father had buried the japanese machine gun with the twisted barrel and were searchingthe house for the money grandma had hidden.
when the wall produced a hollow sound, granddad smashed a hole in it with the butt of hispistol, then reached in and pulled out a red cloth packet. he shook it. it jingled. he poured itscontents out onto the kang – fifty silver dollars.
pocketing the silver dollars, he said, ‘let’s go, son.’
‘go where, dad?’
‘into town to buy bullets. it’s time to settle scores with pocky leng.’
the sun had nearly set when they reached the northern outskirts of the city. snaking darklythrough the sorghum fields, a black locomotive chugged along the tracks of the jiao-ping–jinanrailway line, belching puffs of dark smoke above the sorghum tips. sunlight reflecting off thetracks nearly blinded them. the loud shriek of the whistle terrified father, who squeezedgranddad’s hand.
granddad led father to a large grave mound, in front of which stood a white tombstone twiceas tall as a man. the chiselled words had been rubbed so smooth they were barely discernible,and the area was surrounded by trees so thick it would have taken at least two people to wraptheir arms around any one of them. the black canopy of leaves rustled even when there was nowind, and the grave itself was walled off, like a black island, by stalks of blood-red sorghum.
granddad dug a little hole in front of the tombstone and tossed his pistol in. father also threwhis browning in the hole.
after crossing the tracks, they looked up at the high gateway in the city wall, over which flewa japanese flag, its rising sun and spokelike rays catching the red rays of the setting sun. sentriesstood on both sides of the gate, a japanese to the left and a chinese to the right. while thechinese soldier questioned and searched locals entering town, his japanese counterpart stoodwatching, his rifle ready.
now that they’d crossed the tracks, granddad hoisted father up onto his back and whispered,‘pretend you’ve got a bellyache. groan a little.’
father groaned. ‘like that, dad?’
‘put a little more feeling into it.’
they fell into a line of people heading into the city. ‘what village are you from?’ the chinesesoldier asked haughtily. ‘what’s your business in town?’
‘fish beach, north of town,’ granddad answered meekly. ‘my son has cholera. i’m taking himto see dr wu.’
father was so wrapped up in the conversation between granddad and the sentry he forgot togroan. but he screamed in pain when granddad pinched him hard on the thigh.
the sentry waved them past.
‘you little bastard!’ granddad cursed angrily when they were safely out of earshot. ‘whydidn’t you groan?’
‘that pinch hurt, dad, it hurt a lot!’
granddad led father down a narrow cinder-paved street towards the train station. the sun’srays were dying out; the air was foul. father saw that two blockhouses had been built alongsidethe run-down train station. two japanese soldiers with leashed police dogs marched back andforth. dozens of civilians squatted or stood beyond the railing waiting for a train, and a chinesein a black uniform was positioned on the platform, red lantern in hand, as an eastbound trainsounded its whistle. the ground shook, and the police dogs barked at the coming train. a littleold woman hobbled back and forth in front of the waiting passengers, hawking cigarettes andmelon seeds. the train chugged into the station and ground its wheels to a halt. there were,father saw, more than twenty cars behind the locomotive – ten boxcars, followed by ten or moreflatcars filled with cargo covered carelessly by green tarpaulins. japs standing on the train calledout to their comrades on the platform.
father heard a sudden crack of gunfire from the sorghum field north of the tracks and saw a talljap soldier on one of the flatcars sway momentarily, then tumble headlong to the ground. thehowl of a wolf sounded from one of the blockhouses, and the people, those disembarking andthose waiting to board the train, scattered. the police dogs barked furiously; the machine guns ontop of the blockhouses began spraying the area to the north. the train started up amid theconfusion, belching puffs of black smoke and sending a shower of ashes onto the platform.
granddad grabbed father’s hand and dragged him quickly down a dark lane. he pushed opena half-closed gate and walked into a tiny courtyard, where a small red paper lantern hung fromthe eave of the house. a woman stood in the doorway, her face so heavily powdered you couldn’ttell her age. she was grinning broadly through painted lips; her teeth glistened. black hair waspiled up on her head, and she wore a silk flower behind her ear.
‘my dear elder brother!’ she called out with affected sweetness. ‘now that you’re acommander, you don’t give a second thought to your little sister.’ she threw her arms aroundgranddad’s neck like a little girl.
‘don’t do that,’ he complained. ‘not in front of my son. i can’t waste time with you today!
are you still playing games with fifth brother?’
the woman stormed over to the gate and shut it, then took down the lantern and walked inside.
‘fifth brother was caught and beaten by the garrison command,’ she said with a pout.
‘isn’t song shun of the garrison command his sworn brother?’
‘do you really think you can trust fair-weather friends like that? after what happened atqingdao, i’ve been sitting on the razor’s edge.’
‘fifth brother would never give you away. he proved that when he was grilled by ninedreams cao.’
‘what are you doing here? they say you fought some japanese armoured troops.’
‘it was a fiasco! i’m going to murder that motherfucking pocky leng!’
‘don’t mess with that slippery toad. he’s too much for you.’
granddad took the silver dollars out of his pocket and tossed them down on the table. ‘i wantfive hundred red-jacketed bullets.’
‘red-jacketed, blue-jacketed, i got rid of them all when fifth brother was arrested. i can’tmake bullets out of thin air.’
‘don’t give me that! here’s fifty dollars. tell me, have i, yu zhan’ao, ever treated youwrong?’
‘my dear elder brother,’ the woman said, ‘what kind of talk is that? don’t treat your little sisterlike a stranger.’
‘then don’t get me mad!’ threatened granddad.
‘you’ll never get out of town.’
‘that’s my problem, not yours. i want five hundred large cartridges and fifty small ones.’
the woman walked out into the yard to see if anyone was around, then returned to the house,opened a secret door in the wall, and took out a box of shells that shone like gold.
granddad picked up a sack and stuffed bullets inside, then tied it around his waist. ‘let’s go!’
he said.
the woman stopped him. ‘how do you plan to get away?’
‘by crawling across the tracks near the train station.’
‘no good,’ she said. ‘there are blockhouses there, with searchlights, dogs, and guards.’
‘we’ll give it a try,’ granddad said mockingly. ‘if it doesn’t work, we’ll be back.’
granddad and father made their way down the dark lane towards the train station and hidalongside the wall of a blacksmith shop; from here they had a clear view of the brightly litplatform and the sentries standing on it. granddad led father to the western end of the station,where there was a freight yard. a barbed-wire fence ran from the station all the way to the citywall, and searchlights on top of the blockhouses swept the area, illuminating a dozen or more setsof tracks.
they crawled up next to the barbed-wire fence and tugged on it, hoping to open a hole bigenough to crawl through. but it was too taut, and one of the barbs punctured the palm of father’shand. he whimpered.
‘what’s wrong?’ granddad whispered.
‘i cut my hand, dad,’ father whispered back.
‘we can’t get through. let’s go back!’
‘if we had our guns?.?.?.’
‘we still couldn’t make it.’
‘we could shoot out the lights!’
they retreated into the shadows, where granddad picked up a brick and threw it towards thetracks. one of the sentries shrieked in alarm and fired. the searchlight spun around and swept thearea as a machine gun opened fire, the sound so loud that father nearly went deaf. sparks flewfrom bullets ricocheting off the tracks.
the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month, the mid-autumn festival, is one of the biggestmarket days in gaomi county. the people still had to go on living, even though it was wartime.
business was business. the roads were filled with people at eight o’clock in the morning, when ayoung man named gao rong manned his post at the northern gate to search and question thoseentering and leaving town. he knew the japanese soldier was watching him with ill-concealeddisgust.
an old man in his fifties and a teenage boy were driving a goat out of town. the old man’sface was dark, his eyes steely; the boy’s face was red and he was sweating, as from a case ofnerves.
‘where are you going?’
‘leaving town. going home,’ the old man replied.
‘not going to market?’
‘already been. bought this half-dead goat. cheap.’
‘when did you come into town?’
‘yesterday afternoon. we stayed with a relative. bought the goat first thing this morning.’
‘now where are you going?’
‘leaving town. going home.’
‘okay, you can pass!’
the goat’s belly was so big it could barely walk. when granddad whipped it with a broken-offsorghum stalk, it cried out in agony.
they stopped at the gravesite to retrieve their weapons.
‘shall we let the goat go, dad?’
‘no. let’s take it with us. we’ll kill it when we get home, so we can celebrate the mid-autumn festival.’
they arrived at the village entrance at noon, near the tall black-earth wall that had beenrepaired not many years before. a hail of gunfire erupted from the heart of the village andbeyond, and granddad immediately knew that what they’d been dreading had finally happened.
he was reminded of the premonition he’d had for the past several days, and was glad he’ddecided to go into town that morning. they’d fought the odds and accomplished their task; thatwas all anyone could ask of them.
granddad and father hurriedly picked up the half-dead goat and carried it into the sorghumfield, where father cut the hemp they’d used to sew up its rectum. they’d stuffed 550 bullets upthe goat’s ass in that woman’s house, until its belly drooped like a crescent moon. during the tripback, father had been worried that the bullets would split the goat’s belly or that the animalwould somehow digest them.
as soon as the hemp was cut, the goat’s rectum opened up like a plum flower, and pellets camepouring out. after relieving itself violently, the goat crumpled to the ground. ‘oh no, dad!’
father cried in alarm. ‘the bullets have turned into goat pellets.’
granddad grabbed the goat by its horns and jerked it to its feet, then bounced it up and down.
shiny bullets came spilling out. they scooped up the bullets, loaded their weapons, and stuffedthe rest of the ammunition into their pockets. not worrying whether the goat was dead or alive,they ran through the sorghum field straight for the village.
the japs had surrounded the village, over which a pall of gunsmoke hung. the first thing fatherand granddad saw was eight mortar pieces hidden in the sorghum field, the tubes about half theheight of a man and as thick as a fist. twenty or more khaki-clad soldiers manned the mortarsunder the command of a skinny jap waving a small flag. when he lowered his flag, the soldiersdropped their shells into the tubes, and the glistening objects were launched into the air inwhistling arcs, to land inside the village wall. eight puffs of smoke rose from the village,followed by eight dull thuds that quickly merged into a single loud explosion. eight columns ofsmoke blossomed like dark, hazy flowers. the japs fired another salvo.
like a man wakened from a dream, granddad picked up his rifle and fired it. the japanesewaving the flag crumpled to the ground. father saw the bullet bury itself in the man’s bony skull,which looked like a dry radish. his first thought was, the battle’s on! looking confused, he firedhis weapon, but the bullet struck the base of a mortar with a loud metallic ping. the japsmanning the mortars picked up their rifles and began firing. granddad grabbed father anddragged him down among the sorghum stalks.
the japanese and their chinese lackeys launched an attack, running at a crouch into thesorghum field and firing indiscriminately.
machine-gun fire erupted. crows perched on the village wall were silent. when the puppettroops reached the wall, wooden-handled grenades sailed over towards them and exploded intheir ranks, bringing down at least a dozen men. granddad hadn’t known about ruolu the elder’spurchase of grenades from detachment leader leng’s munitions factory. their comrades turnedand ran. so did the japanese. dozens of men armed with hunting rifles and homemade cannonsclambered up onto the wall, opened fire, then ducked back down, silent again. later on,granddad learned that similarly heated, bizarre battles had occurred at the northern, eastern, andwestern edges of the village.
the japs fired another salvo of mortars, scoring direct hits on the iron gate. thump, thump, thegate was shattered, leaving a gaping breach.
granddad and father opened fire again on the japs manning the mortars. granddad fired fourshots, bringing down two jap soldiers. father fired only a single shot. holding his browning inboth hands, he took careful aim on a jap straddling a mortar and fired. the bullet struck the manin the buttocks. terrified, he fell forward across the muzzle, his body muffling the sound of theexplosion before being ripped apart. father jumped for joy, just as something whizzed noisilypast his head. the mortar tube had exploded, sending the bolt flying a good ten yards to land justbeyond father’s head. it missed killing him by only a few inches.
years later, father was still talking about that glorious single shot.
as soon as the village gate was blown apart, a squad of japanese cavalry stormed the village,sabres drawn. father stared at the handsome, valiant warhorses with three parts terror and sevenparts envy. the sorghum stalks snagged their legs and scratched their faces; it was hard going forthe horses. metal rakes and wooden ploughs, bricks and roof tiles, quite possibly even bowls ofsteaming sorghum porridge, rained down on them from the gatehouses, forcing the screamingriders to cover their heads, and so frightening their mounts that they reared up in protest andsome turned back. granddad and father had odd grins on their faces as they watched the chaoticcavalry charge.
granddad’s and father’s diversion brought throngs of puppet soldiers down on their heads,and before long the cavalry joined the search-and-destroy mission. time and again the cold glintof a japanese sabre came straight at father, but it was always deflected by sorghum stalks. abullet grazed granddad’s scalp. the dense sorghum was saving their lives. like hunted rabbits,they crawled on the ground, and by midafternoon they’d made it all the way to the black waterriver.
after counting their remaining ammunition, they re-entered the sorghum field, and had walkeda li or so when they heard shouts ahead: ‘comrades’ – ‘charge’ – ‘forward’ – ‘down with thejap imperialists.’
the battle cries were followed by bugles and then the rat-tat-tat of what sounded like a coupleof heavy machine guns.
granddad and father ran toward the source of the noise as fast as their legs would carry them.
when they arrived at the spot, it was deserted; they found amid the sorghum stalks two steel oildrums in which strings of firecrackers were exploding.
‘only the jiao-gao regiment would pull a stunt like this,’ granddad said, with his lip curled.
the jap cavalry and puppet foot-soldiers sprayed the area with fire as they made a flankingmovement. granddad retreated, dragging father with him. several jiao-gao soldiers ran towardsthem at a crouch, grenades hanging from their belts. father saw one of them kneel and firetowards a clump of sorghum stalks shaking violently under the charge of a stallion. the raggedgunfire sounded like an earthenware vat being smashed. the soldier tried to pull back the bolt ofhis rifle to eject the spent cartridge, but it was jammed. the warhorse bore down on him. fatherwatched the japanese rider wave his glinting sabre and cut through the air, barely missing thesoldier’s head. the man threw down his rifle and ran, but was soon overtaken by the gallopinghorse, and the sabre came slicing down through his skull, soaking nearby sorghum leaves withhis gore. father saw nothing but inky darkness as he slumped to the ground.
when he awoke, he had been separated from granddad by the japanese cavalry charge. thesun bore down on the tips of the sorghum, casting dark shadows around him. three furry foxcubs darted in front of him, and he instinctively grabbed one of the bushy tails. an angry growlerupted from nearby stalks, as the mother fox leaped out of the cover, baring her fangsthreateningly. he quickly released the cub.
gunfire continued at the eastern, western, and northern edges of the village, as a deathlystillness enveloped the southern edge. father called out softly, then began to shout at the top ofhis lungs. no reply from granddad. a dark cloud of fear settled over his heart as he ran panic-stricken towards the sound of gunfire. dimming rays of sunlight bathed the sorghum tassels,which suddenly seemed hostile. he started to cry.
searching for granddad, father stumbled across the bodies of three jiao-gao soldiers, allhacked to death, their hideous faces frozen in the gloomy darkness. he then ran smack into acrowd of terrified villagers cowering amid the sorghum stalks.
‘have you seen my dad?’
‘is the village open, boy?’
he could tell by their accent that they were from jiao county. he heard an old man instructinghis son: ‘yinzhu, remember what i told you. don’t pass up quilt covers, even if the cotton’s alltattered. but look first for a cookpot, because ours is ruined.’
the old man’s rheumy eyes looked like gobs of snot stuck in the sockets. having no time towaste on them, father continued north. when he reached the edge of the village, he wasconfronted by a scene that had appeared in grandma’s dreams, and granddad’s dreams, and overand over in his own. people were pouring out through the village wall – men and women, youngand old – like a raging torrent, heading for the sorghum fields to escape the heavy fighting on theeastern, northern, and western edges of the village.
gunfire erupted in front of father, who saw a hail of bullets rip into the sorghum field thatdominated the front of the village. the villagers – men and women, young and old – weremowed down along with the sorghum stalks, every last one of them. the air was spattered withfresh blood, turning half the sky red. father sat down hard on the ground, his mouth hangingslack. blood everywhere, and everywhere its sweet stench.
the japanese entered the village.
the sun, stained by human blood, set behind the mountain as the crimson full moon of mid-autumn rose above the sorghum.
my father heard granddad’s muted call:
‘douguan – !’
