The Long March

What I did not understand was, if Huang could see it was pointless for him and his comrades to be stuck in the trenches, how could the commanders of the Red Army have failed to recognize this? Why did they insist on trench warfare instead of Mao's proven guerrilla tactics? Did it not occur to them to adopt another strategy, or was Braun, the Red Army's Comintern adviser, simply too dogmatic, regardless of the situation on the ground?

I was glad I had someone to ask these questions. I met up with another Huang, a young academic who had been examining the Red Army in Jiangxi. I had read his published articles on the Fifth Campaign and was impressed. As a distinguished Chinese historian said, far too many of his colleagues had made the study of history more like propaganda than academic research. Their task for the past fifty years has been to praise the glorious achievements of the Party, eulogize Mao, and write the history of the Communist Party from his works. They have not always been like that – but sometimes they were not appreciated, and some were suppressed or tortured. After a while, they became so cautious they lost their independence of mind. Now things are changing slowly and a young generation of historians has broken away from the old restraints and is studying history as it should be – and Huang is one of them. He was in Ruijin for field research. I told him about Soldier Huang and he told me it was merely a coincidence they were both Huangs. ‘In Jiangxi, there are many Huang families. Perhaps he and I had one ancestor 500 years ago.’

We decided to have a quick bowl of noodles and then go to Shazhou Village over the lunch hour. It was just outside Ruijin and was the seat of the Party and Headquarters of the Red Army immediately before the Long March. Set in a lush landscape of green hills and ancient trees, it looked timeless except for a couple of souvenir shops selling Red Music, portraits of Mao, Mao stamps, three dozen books on Mao's talents in military affairs, poetry, leadership, interpersonal relations and calligraphy, and a DVD about his life; there were also beautiful girls in Red Army uniforms offering their services as guides.

In the centre of the village stood the imposing old clan shrine, and next to it was a long row of what had once been the lofty mansions of rich clan members. The placards outside announced their erstwhile occupants: the Politbureau, the National Executive Committee, various government departments, and the residences of all the senior leaders, including Mao's at the head of the village, sheltered by a huge camphor tree.

The village was crammed with people, like a country fair. Ruijin has always been regarded as the holy place of the Chinese Revolution. Lately, Party officials have got into the habit of combining tourism with visiting revolutionary sites. Ruijin was a popular choice: to see where the Long March started, to sit under the tree where the senior leaders had debated issues of life and death, to bathe in the eulogies of the masses for the Party, at least in revolutionary songs – the good fortune of so many historical figures of the Chinese Communist Party might rub off on the visitors, whose goal was to climb higher within the Party themselves.

With a group of officials from Beijing, Young Huang and I squeezed into Mao's bedroom, bare and basic, with a bed and a mosquito net, a desk and a chair. Over the desk was a photo of Mao, which the guide said was the only picture of him taken in Ruijin, something I found hard to believe. Mao was gaunt, slightly blank and expressionless. ‘What do you notice?’ the guide asked. ‘It does not look like Mao,’ a plump man replied. ‘Why not?’ ‘I'm not sure, perhaps he does not look his usual confident self.’ ‘You are right,’ she smiled condescendingly. ‘You are very observant. May you go high in your position.’ The man beamed, and the guide continued, ‘When he was in Ruijin, he was out of favour. They had pushed Mao aside and allowed the young and arrogant German called Otto Braun to command the Red Army. Braun was blessed by the Comintern, so he had supreme power; but he was hopeless. That was why the Red Army failed in the Fifth Campaign and had to leave Jiangxi.’

Braun was not popular with the Chinese. A true Bavarian with deep blue eyes and an air of solemnity, he did not speak a word of Chinese, and had little knowledge of China. He drank coffee, not tea; he ate bread rather than rice, even though he had to make it himself; he preferred sausages to stir-fries. However, he did have military experience. He fought in World War I, and then joined the German Communist Party. Arrested and imprisoned in 1920, he escaped to the Soviet Union eight years later and studied at the Frunze Military Academy in Moscow. But he angered Mao by dismissing his ideas at their first meeting. How could this ignorant, despotic barbarian tell him how to lead his people? Mao was furious. They disagreed on just about everything, except for their love of nicotine and women. It was not just Mao who was unhappy. Liu Buocheng, the Chief of Staff, was also trained in the Frunze Academy, and was a much more experienced commander. He irritated his young boss when he dared to disagree. ‘You seem to be no better than an ordinary staff officer,’ Braun told him. ‘You wasted your time in the Soviet Union.’11

However, the Chinese treated Braun with reverence; they even called him Tai Shanghung, ‘the supreme emperor’. After all, he was Stalin's envoy, and Moscow's support was paramount for the Chinese Communists – ideologically, politically, financially and militarily. Zhou Enlai, the powerful mandarin of the Communist Party, faced the delicate task of finding a woman robust enough to please Braun. In the end, he came up with a peasant girl, who obliged because she was told it was her ‘revolutionary duty’. So sitting in the house specially built for him, nicknamed the Lone House, with the help of a translator and two packs of cigarettes a day specially brought in from the Nationalist-controlled areas, Braun read the telegrams from the field, and then drew up battle plans for the Red Army. His master plan combined defence and attack: trenches arranged as bulwarks against the blockhouses, and troop detachments behind and on the wings to engage the enemy in ‘short, sharp blows’.

I was curious to know what happened to Braun's Lone House. The guide told me it was torn down long ago. ‘It was not worth keeping, the trouble he brought us. Had he not come, had Mao been in control, the Red Army would not have had to go on the Long March!’ she said in annoyance. Then she took the crowd to another holy spot, the well which Mao helped the villagers to dig, a story we all know from our primary school textbooks. They all wanted to pay their respects, to drink the water, and be as lucky as Mao.

Watching the crowd disperse, Young Huang had a look of disdain on his face. ‘How can they be so irresponsible and ignorant?’ he said angrily. ‘All this superstitious crap. This is the 21st century! And all the blame on Braun. It wasn't his fault really, although he did make a lot of mistakes. He was only 34. He must have thought he was another Napoleon. He gave orders and expected to be obeyed. He even told them where to put the cannons, using maps that weren't any good, and he lost his temper when they corrected him. But as things stood, there was little he could have done to turn the tide. He was not to blame for the Red Army's failures. He did not insist on trench warfare as people are always told, but guerrilla tactics and mobile attacks couldn't work any more. We were trapped, like flies in a spider's web.’

‘The Red Army was stuck in the trenches for a long time.’ I told him Soldier Huang's story. I had questioned him in detail about his experiences in the trenches. The story I knew was that the Red Army won the first four campaigns because of Mao and his guidance, and lost the fifth because of Braun and had to go on the Long March. It seemed logical, and it had gone virtually unchallenged. I accepted it. It occurred to me that subconsciously I was trying to prove the received wisdom.

Huang and I came out of Mao's bedroom and sat down under the huge camphor tree in the courtyard. He drew my attention to the situation that Chiang had to face at the time. Chiang was the head of the Nationalist government, but he did not control the country. Much of it was in the hands of warlords who hated him as much as the Communists did. Each warlord occupied a territory where they levied taxes on peasants’ harvests, even twenty years ahead; they were the largest growers and traffickers of opium, which they sold to raise their armies. In their eyes, Chiang was just another warlord like them who had tried to unify the country with the help of the Communists in 1927, but started killing them too when he realized they were going to challenge him. They pledged loyalty to him when he promised them millions of silver dollars a month, but changed their allegiance whenever it suited them.

The warlords’ internecine wars, their lack of any moral values and ideals except for keeping their power and territory, and the damage they inflicted on the nation, were among the curses of 20th-century China. I had learned all about them in school, but usually we did not associate them with the rise and expansion of Communism. While Chiang was battling it out with them – the biggest battle lasting five months, costing 200 million silver dollars and displacing 2 million people from their homes – the Communists were free to grow and grow. The Red Army in the Jiangxi Soviet expanded its territory, at its peak controlling twenty-one counties with over 3 million people, and built itself up from a guerrilla force of 9,000 men to 100,000. They even created a state within a state. Mao was grateful for the intervention of the warlords and admitted that this was uniquely helpful for the Chinese Revolution. They had a powerful impact on the energy and resources Chiang could put into his campaigns against the Jiangxi Soviet. He had to call off one of his campaigns when the warlords of Guangdong and Guangxi mutinied, almost forcing him out of office.

If Chiang had enough headaches domestically, the Japanese gave him more. Japan had set its eyes on China as if it was its due, an integral part of its imperial ambitions. On 18 September 1931 Japan took China's three north-eastern provinces. A month later, Chiang had to abort his Third Campaign, and his Fourth Campaign eighteen months later, when the Japanese threatened to march on Beiping, today's Beijing. Chiang chose to appease the Japanese – for the time being at least. He knew the country was not ready for a war, but more importantly, he regarded the Japanese as a disease of the skin, and the Communists as one of the heart. ‘If there is no peace within, how can we resist the enemy from outside?’ he appealed to the nation. To the outrage of all Chinese, he allowed Japan a free hand to run China north of the Great Wall. However necessary as a strategy, it set people against him; it would almost cost him his life, and finally it lost him China.

For the time being, though, with this decision Chiang could concentrate on his Fifth and final campaign against the Jiangxi Communists in earnest. He threw in his best troops, 200,000 of them. He assembled his 7,500 senior officers in Lushan Mountain in northern Jiangxi, telling them: ‘The only purpose of this training is for the elimination of the Red Bandits. They are our sole target, and all your preparation, tactical, strategic and operational, is to serve this need.’12 He gave every officer a copy of handbooks on Eliminating the Red Bandits, Keys to Eliminating the Red Bandits, and The Principles of Training for the Army Engaged in the Elimination Campaign.

As Soldier Huang experienced it, the blockhouse strategy was the key to this campaign. Why then had Chiang not used it earlier? It would have saved him four years, and a lot of money and lives. ‘Blockhouses were not his idea. Chiang admitted himself there was nothing new about his strategy – a 19th-century Chinese general used the very same method to put down a peasant rebellion,’ Young Huang said. ‘But for the strategy to work, it needed time and security, neither of which Chiang had before. This time he did.

‘But contrary to the criticism heaped on Braun, he did not make the mistake of ordering the Red Army to sit in the trenches and wait for the enemy,’ Huang went on. I remembered how he had argued this so convincingly in his thought-provoking articles. The Comintern had in fact instructed the Red Army to play to its strength of mobile and guerrilla warfare.

From past experiences, the Red Army has achieved many victories in mobile warfare, but suffered considerably when it forced frontal attacks in areas where the enemy had built blockhouses … You should not engage in positional warfare, and should move behind the enemy …13

Braun agreed entirely: ‘As to positional warfare, whatever form it took, it was not suitable. We were all absolutely clear about it.’14 He tried to draw the enemy out of their turtle-shells and then launch short, sharp blows to wipe them out. But the trouble was that the enemy refused to come out unless they had full covering fire on the ground and from the air, often with three or four divisions together within 10 kilometres. This made it hard for the Red Army to concentrate enough men and deal them a fatal blow, hard though it tried. Even Chiang noticed this tendency: ‘When we fight the bandits now, they rarely confront us in positional warfare; they frequently attack us by guerrilla tactics.’15 The battle of Guangchang in April 1934 was an exception, when Soldier Huang and almost the entire Red Army were stuck in their trenches for a month up against the blockhouses. It was the first time this happened, but the battle was not Braun's idea, as he made very clear in his memoir:

The Party leadership considered it a strategically critical point because it barred the way into the heart of the Soviet area. The leadership also believed that unresisting surrender would be politically indefensible.16

Zhou Enlai agreed with Braun:

Every comrade must realize, the plan by the enemy to take Guangchang is different from the previous four campaigns. It is a strategic step in their penetration into the heart of the Soviet base; it is the key to their overall offensive. We must fight to defend Guangchang.17

I had talked to the veterans and the expert, and it was clear to them why they lost, but in seventy years, with so many books on the subject, the same argument is still used: if Mao did not lead it, the Revolution would fail. To support this theme, history had to be made to fit the theory. At least militarily, even Mao learned from mistakes, as his memoirs make clear. The Party was only twelve years old, the Red Army half that, the Soviets only three years. The guidance coming from the Comintern was often not based on Chinese reality. Naturally there were mistakes, but a scapegoat was found on whom all the blame for losing the Fifth Campaign was dumped.

Soon after the Guangchang battle, the Party made its decision to launch the Long March; it knew it could no longer defend the Jiangxi base – in fact it informed Moscow so in May 1934 – but some units had to hold the line so the preparations for the Long March could get under way. ‘When we moved house, it would take a few weeks. The Long March was a state on the move, with everything it might need,’ Young Huang said. ‘They had to replenish the troops, to find homes for the sick and wounded, to get together food, money and other supplies. Also where would they go? Nobody knew for sure. That was why they sent out the 6th Corps to blaze the trail, and the 7th Corps to divert the Nationalists’ attack.’

The decision to abandon the Jiangxi Soviet was made in the strictest secrecy. Only the top leaders and military commanders knew about it – Mao himself did not learn of it until August, two months before the departure. There were two fears: firstly that morale would disintegrate, and secondly that the Nationalists would find out. As late as 3 October, two weeks before the Long March, Zhang Wentian, the Chairman of the Soviet Government, continued to call on the people to fight to the end:

For the defence of our regime and of our lives, our children and babies, our land and grain, our cows, hogs, chickens and ducks, and for resistance against enemy slaughter, destruction, looting and rape, we should use our daggers, hunting guns, rifles and any sorts of old and new weapons to arm ourselves … Let our millions of worker and peasant masses become an unbreakable armed force to fight along with our invincible Red Army. We shall completely smash the enemy attack. We must win the final victory! Hold high the Soviet banner! Long live the Soviet regime.18

This is an ancient Chinese tactic known as the cicada trick: the cicada flies off after it sheds its skin in the autumn, and people are fooled by the skin, thinking it is still there.

But what did ordinary soldiers like Huang know? How far was he involved in the preparations and how much did he know about them? I was keen to find out. As if he knew I was coming, he was waiting for me in his courtyard in the afternoon, wearing a Red Army uniform, complete with octagonal cap. It suited him. ‘I thought you might like it. They gave them to us ten years ago to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of the Long March. You know I never had a complete uniform until I finished the March!’

When did he know he was going? I asked. ‘I didn't know. Had I known it was going to be that long, I'd have come home straight away, no matter what,’ he said without the slightest hesitation. Did he have any inkling that something was coming up? He took off his cap and scratched his head. ‘Now you ask me, I think it was when I saw new uniforms for the first time. I think the autumn harvest was already in by then.’

He and his company were pulled out of the trenches in late September 1934, and brought to Yudu, which was 60 kilometres from Ruijin. New recruits were brought in to replenish the depleted company – some were older than his father. And there were new uniforms and shoes for everyone. At last he would look like a soldier rather than a beggar. He put on the jacket – it was double layered and he felt so warm, like being by a fire. He never had one like it – it was not necessary in the south, even in winter. ‘Why do we have to carry this heavy stuff? Are we going somewhere cold?’ someone asked, but did not get an answer. Huang was more interested in finding a jacket and shoes that fitted him. Sadly, the jacket was like a coat, and the shoes like boats. They were made for adults. Seeing the tears forming in his eyes, the captain led him into another room. His mouth dropped when he saw the huge stockpile – he had never see so many bullets in his life. He felt as excited as on New Year's Day, when he was given firecrackers. ‘All yours, take as many as you like,’ the captain told him jokingly. He loaded himself up, but the captain took away all but one bandolier and a few grenades. ‘You won't get very far with more than that, my son!’

Soldier Huang had his rifle across his back, a pack with five kilos of rice, a bowl, the patched jacket that his mother had given him, and an extra pair of straw sandals that the captain had made specially for him. A pair of chopsticks were thrust into his puttees. ‘We are going somewhere, aren't we?’ he asked one of the older soldiers. ‘Perhaps we'll go behind the enemy lines, and take the big towns and cities. That's what we used to do after each campaign.’ As he spoke, all the soldiers started talking at once. ‘Now we'll have meat at last.’ Ah, we're going to see beautiful women.’ ‘We'll bring back enough money to feed ourselves through the winter.’ Excitement was in the air, the gloom of the trenches had lifted.

Early one evening, when the moon was big and round, Huang and his company marched along the broad and gentle Yudu River. People came out to say good-bye. Some girls, newly wedded, were standing on tiptoe, looking about anxiously to see their husbands as they passed through. When they spotted them, they cried out with joy, only to be teased by the raucous soldiers in the company. They blushed, ran back, and watched from further off. Others, perhaps organized by the local women's association, were more bold, walking along with the soldiers, and asking, ‘What's your name? Where are you from? Can you win a medal and become a hero?’ It was the men's turn to be shy and tongue-tied. The girls laughed and burst into song:

A model soldier,

That's what I want you to be.

I long for your good news day and night,

My Red Army brother,

Capture a few generals and make me happy!19

In the crowd, Huang spotted the mother from the family he had been billeted with, who had looked after him like a son. She ran towards him, and pushed two eggs into his hands. ‘Look after yourself, my son,’ she said, barely holding back her tears. Suddenly he felt the pain of what he had learned days before: her son joined the Red Army two years ago and she had not heard from him since. ‘Don't worry, mother. We'll be back soon.’

THREE Water Flowing Upstream

October, the autumn wind blows cool;

Swift the Red Army, swiftly it goes.

By night across Yudu's flow, Old land,

young blood – to victory.

IFOLLOWED THE RED ARMY'S withdrawal to Yudu, and walked by the river outside the town. Its wide expanse was placid, with tree-covered hills on the far shore stretching as far as you could see, dotted here and there with villages; close by a few old boats were tied up to stakes in the shallows. Upstream the scene is much as it was when the Red Army crossed here seventy years ago. The barges that carried the pontoons for the crossing still float on the grey-green water. But right in front of me there was something new: a white obelisk, incongruously large, its size emphasized by small conical evergreens that lead away from it on either side. Its curved sides soared to a peak, and near the top was a large gold star on a red disk. Below this was the inscription: ‘The first fording by the Central Army on the Long March.’ Downstream, some way beyond the monument, stands a majestic four-lane bridge. Large characters on a huge red arch over it announce ‘Long March Bridge’, and smaller characters tell you it was opened in 1996, the sixtieth anniversary of the March.

Like most visitors, I came here to see the starting point of the March, but somehow I felt uneasy that the monument, the bridge, and so many commemorative sites in the town were all celebrating the start of the March. Was not the Red Army's departure also the end of the Jiangxi Soviet Republic? It was the first Communist government in China, and it had collapsed. Was there nothing to be said about that? Chiang's military strength was one reason why the Soviet failed; it was also running out of men and materials, but the reasons might go deeper. Before I embarked on the Marchers’ route, I needed to know more about what had happened here.

I first made for the house where Mao had lived. I had read in the guide book that it was only a short walk from the river in the old quarter of town, but when I asked a young man where it was, he said, ‘What house?’ I was puzzled. Mao's house was normally well known anywhere he had stayed, but the man seemed to know nothing about it. Perhaps he was not a local. I walked further and saw an old lady; although she did tell me the way, I still almost went past it. It was in a side street with a small entrance. There was a red placard: ‘Chairman Mao's Residence, July-October 1934’.

It was locked, so I banged noisily on the door for some time, attracting a few passers-by, before someone answered from inside: ‘We are not open. Go away.’ This was a change; I remembered the crowds that poured through Mao's residence in Ruijin. I shouted I had come a long way and could I just have a quick look? There was total silence, and then the clicking of keys. Finally, the door creaked open, an old man showed himself, and he let me in.

The house and its very small courtyard face west. In China, houses are usually built facing south to enjoy the sunshine. Those facing east or west are inferior; in a traditional compound they are normally for children or junior family members. The courtyard was bare, without the trees that normally adorned Mao's residences. He loved trees. The ancient camphor tree in front of his house in Ruijin bore a placard saying that he often sat under it to read and chat. Inside there was just a dusty portrait on the wall of the sitting room, and some drab information boards below. They carried a very brief summary of Mao's life and his activities in Yudu. A shaky staircase led to the second floor which was where he slept. After Ruijin, this was quite a come-down.