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Title: From the Yalu to Port Arthur
Author: Sir William Edward Maxwell
Release date: June 3, 2025 [eBook #76216]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Hutchinson & Co, 1906
Credits: Brian Coe, Karin Spence and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM THE YALU TO PORT ARTHUR ***
[Illustration: William Maxwell.
(Taken in the Mou-tien-ling Pass.)]
FROM THE YALU
TO PORT ARTHUR
A PERSONAL RECORD.
BY
WILLIAM MAXWELL,
Lately Special Correspondent of _The Standard_,
now of _The Daily Mail_.
_WITH 33 ILLUSTRATIONS AND 3 MAPS._
London:
HUTCHINSON & CO.,
Paternoster Row, E.C.
1906
PRINTED BY
A. CHRIS. FOWLER,
MOORFIELDS AND SHOREDITCH,
LONDON, E.C.
_PREFATORY NOTE._
_So many accounts have been written of the War between Russia and
Japan that apology may be demanded for adding another to these records.
My excuse is that a very limited number of European and American
correspondents accompanied the Japanese Army, and that I may claim to
be the only correspondent who was with General Kuroki from the Yalu
to the Sha-ho; and, with my interpreter, Mr. Ito, the only observer,
European, American or Japanese, present at these engagements, and at
the last assaults upon and surrender of Port Arthur._
_To General Kuroki and the Officers of his Staff I am under many
obligations. Especially am I indebted to General Fujii, Chief of the
Staff, who showed me many favours and gave me much valuable information
which now appears for the first time._
_In the opening chapter will be found a short summary of the
events that led to the War. It contains matter that may throw a
little new light upon some phases of the diplomatic struggle. In the
appendix are studies of the Russian and Japanese Armies which were
issued as confidential papers before the War. I commend them to the
close attention of all who have a professional interest in military
science._
_WILLIAM MAXWELL._
Contents of Chapters
CHAPTER I
The Origin of the War--A Glance over Three Centuries--Korea and
Japan--War between China and Japan--Peace--Russian Intrigue--A
Temporary Agreement--Russian “Instructors” at Seoul--Protest and
Exasperating Delay in Negotiations--Korean Emperor Unexpectedly
Firm--Russia Obtains the Use of Port Arthur--Her Traders in
Korea--Japanese Patience Exhausted.
CHAPTER II
Japanese Study of the Russian Army--Remarkable Confidential
Paper--Concise and Accurate Estimate--Incapacity of the
Russian Officer--Lack of Discipline--Kuropatkin “Not to be
Feared”--Necessary to Frighten the Russian Soldiers--Contempt
for the Cossack.
CHAPTER III
The Japanese Soldier and Russian Opinion--His Patience,
Self-restraint, Ingenuity and Courage--Russian Deductions Mainly
Wrong--Theory Falsified by Fact.
CHAPTER IV
The Plan of Campaign and the Japanese Leaders--Russian
Defensive Triangle--Base Formed by the Yalu--First
Point of Attack--Anticipated Early Fall of
Port Arthur--Tardy Development of Japanese
Campaign--Yamagata--Oyama--Kodama--Tanaka--Fukushima--Kuroki--Fujii
--Their Character and Personality.
CHAPTER V
The Landing in Korea--Seoul Entered--Destruction of
the Varyag--Control of the Korean Gulf--Pyng-yang
Occupied--Strategic Position Won--Russian Lack of
Foresight--Michtchenko’s Mysterious Movements--Misled by Korean
Spies--Cossacks Retire North--A Tactical Error.
CHAPTER VI
The Northern Advance--Kuroki at Pyn-gyang--Four Problems to
Solve--Danger of Russian Move Southwards--A Thirty Miles
Line--Terrible Roads--No Opposition--Halt for Supplies--A
Choice of Roads--Both Utilised--Russian Attack on Chonju
repulsed--Landing Place for Heavy Guns Secured--A Path Across
Fifteen Miles of Morass.
CHAPTER VII
En route for the Front--“The Men of Great Patience”--From
Chinampo to Pyng-yang--A Dismal Journey--Dignified Korean
Governor--Pyng-yang, its Smells and Abominations--Demon
Worship--Coin of the Realm--Miles of Transport--Head-quarters at
last.
CHAPTER VIII
The Valley of the Yalu--Wiju, “the Stronghold of the
West”--Japanese Concentration Complete--A Network of
Rivers--Study of the Position--How the River Runs--Tiger
Hill--How and Where shall we Cross--Vague Information--Kuroki’s
Difficulties.
CHAPTER IX
Bridging the Yalu--A Memorable Feat--Daring
Reconnaissance--Energy of the Engineers--The Island of
Kontonto--Suitable for the Howitzers--Safely Landed and
Screened--The Field Guns next--Russians Bombard the Bridge--Work
Uninterrupted--Field Guns Over the Main Stream--Pontoons
Struck--Another Bridge Facing Tiger Hill--Ploughshares as
Anchors--Ten Bridges Put Together Under Cover.
CHAPTER X
Preparing for Battle--Description of the Scene--Like Painted
Canvas--View of the Russian Position--Reminiscent of the
Tugela--Should be Impregnable--The Russians Reconnoitre--And
Retire--Japanese Preparations Completed--The Islands Cleared--A
Fight for Tiger Hill--Important Flanking Movement--General Plan
of Attack.
CHAPTER XI
The First Encounter--Japanese Confidence--Five Thousand
Wounded Expected--The Russian Dispositions--Ignorance of the
Direction of the Attack--A Front of Eighteen Miles--Primitive
Trenches--Kuroki Risks a Divided Command--An Anxious Night.
CHAPTER XII
The Passage of the Yalu--The Guns Begin to Speak--Japanese
Batteries Unmasked--Two Hours’ Artillery Duel--Russian
Retirement--Japanese Right Advance--Crossing the River at
Night--The First of May--A General Attack--No Faith in Boer
Tactics--Plunging through the River--Desperate Struggle--The
Position Taken--Banzai!
CHAPTER XIII
The Pursuit and the Lessons--Supports and Reserves in Play--A
Detached Russian Force--Fierce Rearguard Fight--Priest as
Leader--Capture of Guns--Russian Casualties--The Enemy’s
Misplaced Confidence--Effect of Japanese Fire--Common Shell and
Shrapnel--Not a Frontal Attack--Why no Counter Attack?
CHAPTER XIV
After the Battle--A Moving Picture--Kuroki at Ease--Wounded and
Dying--“Unser Vater”--The Realism of War--An Appreciation of
the Japanese Task--Saving of the Living--Return to Camp--Close
Shave--Nearly Shot for a Cossack.
CHAPTER XV
“The Peace of the East”--Antung City--The Godmothers of Japan,
Korea and China--Manchurians as Men--Japanese March through
Antung--A Dutch Kitchen--Native Houses--The Privilege of
Conquerors--My Quarters in a Temple--A Feast Day.
CHAPTER XVI
The March into Manchuria--Feng-Hoang-Cheng--“The Merciful Man
has no Enemies”--The Governors of the Province--The Manchu as
Soldier--A Beautiful Country--March to Kao-li-men--Russians
Fall Back upon Liao-Yang--The Intendent of the Eastern
Marshes--Informing Interview--“Twenty years since I spoke with
an Englishman”--Nearly like a Cardinal.
CHAPTER XVII
The Soldier and his War Songs--Temple Bell and Rifle Shot--The
War Song of Nippon--Political rather than Martial--Sir Ian
Hamilton’s Translation.
CHAPTER XVIII
In Memory of the Dead--A Shinto Service--Memories of Omdurman,
Khartoum and Ladysmith--The Lost Origin of a Ritual--A Genuine
Product of Japanese Soil--A Religion only in Name--The Essence
of the Creed--The High Priest’s Allocution--General Nishi’s
Eulogy--Tribute to the Fallen.
CHAPTER XIX
A Buddhist Ceremony--Japan’s Foreign Civilization but Indigenous
Religion--“The sins of Russia have offended Buddha”--A Sermon
instinct with Patriotism--The Offering of Incense.
CHAPTER XX
Why the Japanese lingered at Feng-hoang-cheng--Many Reasons for
Hesitation--Kuroki’s Caution--A New Factor--What the Russians
ought to have done--An Interval of Forty-five Days but no Waste
of Time--Our Right Flank Cleared.
CHAPTER XXI
Advance toward Liao-yang--Enemy Abandon Mou-tien-ling
Pass--Evidences of Confused Retreat--Heaven-reaching Pass--Rain
for Three Nights and Days--Splendid Defences Deserted--Effect of
a Flanking Movement--The Northern Road Open--A Surprise--Russian
Assault on our Outposts--A Hand-to-hand Encounter--An Attack
Badly Planned and Badly Executed.
CHAPTER XXII
Attack on Mou-tien-ling--The Japanese “Mother” us--“You
must wait”--To-wan--Engagements at Dawn--The Guns
Speak--Reinforcements Hurried Up--Inexplicable Retirement of
the Enemy--Vigorous Pursuit--A Deadlock--The Need for Horse
Artillery--Sharp Fighting on our Right--Why these repeated
efforts to capture positions already abandoned?
CHAPTER XXIII
Assault on Chaotoa--Important Strategic Position--Its Strength
and Entrenchments--A Day of Desultory Fighting--Under Cover
of Darkness--Attack at Dawn--Weak Point in the Russian
Position--The Signal--A Timely Arrival--Rush into the
River--Brilliant Capture of Chaotoa.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Advance on Liao-yang--A General Action--We Leave
Mou-tien-lien--Axioms of War put to the Test--Kuroki and
Kuropatkin Face to Face--The Ramparts of Manchuria--We Hold
the Enemy’s Front--A Race for a Pass--Check on our Left
Flank--Prolonged Artillery Duel--A Torrid Afternoon--Drinking
amid a Hail of Bullets--Shrapnel fails again--The Centre
Relieves the Left--All the Objectives in our Hands--Kuropatkin’s
Failure to Deliver Counter Attack.
CHAPTER XXV
Attack on Yu-shu-ling--A Dramatic Encounter--An Isolated
Engagement essential to the General Movement--Four o’Clock
in the Morning--“The Enemy is upon us”--Russian Headlong
Flight--Makura-yama--Diversion on the Enemy’s Right--A Gauntlet
of Fire--Russian Retreat on Am-ping.
CHAPTER XXVI
The Battle of Liao-yang--Preparing the Way--Increased Russian
Activity--How Kuroki Drove Kuropatkin to his Last Defences
about Liao-yang--Two Hundred Thousand Men and Three Defensive
Lines--Detailed Action and Skilled Co-operation--A Wedge of
Steel in the Heart of the Enemy.
CHAPTER XXVII
The Russian Army Retires on Liao-yang--“To-day the Russians
are very Obstinate”--A Dense Fog--Russians Retire on their
Second Line--Five Months in the Mountains--The Freedom of the
Plains--Leisurely Russian Retirement--The Moral of Long Range
Artillery--Startling Flight on the Last Defences--Within Fifteen
Hundred Yards of the Enemy’s Trenches--Deficiency of Japanese
Field Signalling--In Prosperous Am-ping.
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Assault on Liao-yang--The Sedan of Manchuria?--First
Evidence of Permanent Russian Occupation--Kuroki’s Reasons for
Retirement--Shou-shan--Hundreds of Guns Engaged--Our Infantry
unable to Advance--Nozu Checked--Stale-mate at Nightfall--Battle
begins again at Dawn--Weary, Inconclusive Day.
CHAPTER XXIX
Capture of Liao-yang--The Supreme Moment at Hand--Truce of the
Night--An Apparently Impregnable Position--Reckless Courage of
the Japanese--Three Attacks and Three Repulses--An Irresistible
Onrush--Liao-yang Won--Unflinching Rearguard at the Railway
Station--Kuropatkin’s Main Army on its way to Mukden--Orderly
Retirement--No Sedan after all.
CHAPTER XXX
Kuroki Crosses the Tai-tsu--A Great Achievement--Kuropatkin’s
Strategy Frustrated--Kuroki’s New Task--Absence
of Favourable Conditions--River Crossed without
Opposition--Manjuyama--Kuropatkin’s Eye--Fierce Artillery
Struggle--Passing through an Inferno--Fighting all
Night--Capture of Manjuyama--Terrible Sacrifice--Unavailing Move
against Ponchiho--“Bitter in the mouth.”
CHAPTER XXXI
Retreat of the Russians--We are too Exhausted to Pursue--Failure
of the Field Wire--A Triple Line of Dead--Horrors of a Soldier’s
Grave--Fog again--Twelve Days’ Casualties--Why Kuropatkin
Escaped.
CHAPTER XXXII
Battle of Sha-ho--Kuropatkin’s Address to his Army--Reason of
the Retreat--Now strong enough to abandon the Defensive and
ensure Victory--Stringent Orders from St. Petersburgh--The
Move South Begins--Our Right Wing Falls Back--A Gigantic
Struggle--Half-a-Million Men Engaged--Russian Plan of
Attack--Critical Situation on our Right--Spectacular Cossacks.
CHAPTER XXXIII
A Gallant Fight--The Weakness of Ponchiho--Umizawa
Forced Back--Both Sides Reinforced--Desperate Measures
Required--Oyama Orders a General Attack--Inferiority of Japanese
Artillery--A Terrible Day of Battle--“Order, Counter-order,
Disorder”--Russian Failure all along the Line.
CHAPTER XXXIV
A Hard-won Victory--The Moment to Strike--An Inspiring
Spectacle--How the Japanese Advanced--Assault on Temple
Hill--Its Capture--Russians Prepare to Retreat--Ponchiho
Surrounded--Prince Kun-in to the Rescue--First Instance of
Cavalry Usefulness--We Manage to Hold On.
CHAPTER XXXV
The Last Struggle--The General Advance--Very Slow Progress--The
Famous Okasaki Brigade--Its Exploits--An Assault that
Failed--Enemy Withdraw in the Night--We Follow Them Up--Pursuit
and Slaughter--Fifty Guns Captured--Ten Thousand Dead Russians.
CHAPTER XXXVI
A Forlorn Hope--Stirring Episode of the Battle--A Night
Attack--Difficult Operation--Elaborate Preparations--A Horror
of Great Darkness--Slowly Pressing Onward--Zone of Death--The
Russian Imperial Regiment--Fearless and Resolute Men--Stronghold
Swept by Fire and Bayonet--Step by Step--Not Died in Vain.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Valley of the Shadow--Dead and Dying--Plucked from the Grave--A
Shattered Victim--Strangely Pathetic Group--A Soldier on his
Knees--“Kick him up”--A Slain Drummer.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Mukden in Sight--Storming a Hill--Four Roads Open to the
Retreat--Our Failure to Envelop the Enemy--Its Reason--Caution
Justified--A Feature of the War--Breakdown of the Russian
Intelligence Branch--Bombardment of a Mountain--At Close
Quarters Again--Courageous and Audacious Defence--Flight.
CHAPTER XXXIX
The Story of a Famous Brigade--General Okasaki’s 4,000
Fighting Men--Their 3,889 Casualties--Unshaken Morale of the
Brigade--Okasaki’s Career--What the Brigade Did--A Crowded and
Stirring Chronicle--Typical of the Japanese Infantry.
CHAPTER XL
To Port Arthur--A Change of Scene--Miscalculations as to
Port Arthur--Permission to Join Nogi--Appreciation of
Privilege--Hurrying South.
CHAPTER XLI
The Surrender--New Year’s Day--Flag of Truce--A Land of
Silence--Incredible News--“Port Arthur has Fallen”--Stoessel’s
Message--Fateful Council of War--Orders to Destroy the
Ships--Nogi Agrees to Negotiate--His Delegates--“The Road to
Peace”--Plum Tree Cottage--Terms of Capitulation--Russian
Requests--The Answer--Fire in Port Arthur--Stoessel’s Enquiries
after Kuropatkin and the Baltic Fleet--Kondrachenko, the Heart
and Soul of the Defence--Stoessel’s View of the Cause of the
War--His Wish to Retire.
CHAPTER XLII
The Two Leaders--Sketch of Nogi--The Meeting--Stoessel’s Honour
Preserved--Nogi’s Bereavement--A Courteous Gift--Stoessel on
his Way to Dalny--Inside the War-scarred City--The Broken
Battleships--Nogi’s Triumphant Entry--The Japanese Good Soldiers
but Bad on Parade--Russian Officers on the Defence--Technical
Criticisms.
CHAPTER XLIII
Why did General Stoessel Surrender?--Port Arthur Capable of
Further Resistance--Four Justifications for Capitulation
Examined--Facts and Figures--The Last Days Less Glorious than
the First--The General, and not the Garrison, Surrendered.
CHAPTER XLIV
Japanese Guns and Horses--The One Advantage of their Guns--Their
Predilection for Common Shell--Good Results--Tactical
Deficiencies--The Cavalry--Difficulty of Forming Correct
Judgment--The Conservative Cavalry Officer--Spirited Defence of
his Branch--The Korean Stock to Blame--Lack of Opportunity to
Test Capacity--The Lance must be Relegated to Museums.
CHAPTER XLV
Children and the War--True Hero Worshippers--A Missive to Lord
Roberts--Kuroki’s Letter Bag--Blood-curdling Sentiments--His
Punctiliousness in Replying--Girls Better Letter Writers than
Boys--Some Juvenile Examples.
CHAPTER XLVI
Comrades at Last--An Incident of Battle--Told by an Officer of
Kuroki’s Staff--Wounded Japanese and Russian Fraternise--A Story
of Devotion.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Facing
page_
_Frontispiece_ 1
Japanese Marching Order: Front View }
Japanese Marching Order: Back View } 18
In comfortable Quarters }
My Interpreter and Staff } 44
General View of the Russian Positions on the North Bank of
the Yalu 52
Japanese Infantry fording the Yalu 56
A Close View of the Yalu 84
A Cavalry Regiment crossing the River 88
A Gun Team in the Water 92
On the Line of Retreat 96
The Day after the Retreat 98
Abandoned Russian Field Kitchen 100
City Wall, Feng-Hoang-Cheng }
A Street Scene, Feng-Hoang-Cheng } 114
Japanese Ambulance Party, Chaotoa 176
Captured Russian Guns 186
Japanese Funeral Service }
The Tower at To-wan } 194
After the Fight }
The Red Cross at Work } 200
A Buddhist Shrine }
Figure of Buddha } 268
Temple Hill: Ruins of Temple and Gods }
A Manchurian Scavenger } 286
Foreign Attachés and Correspondents 314
Russian Warship on Fire, Port Arthur 340
What we found in Port Arthur 354
General Nogi enters Port Arthur }
Breech of Japanese Siege Gun } 356
Japanese marching into Port Arthur }
Snapshot of Madame Stoessel } 358
Horse-shoeing Extraordinary 368
MAPS
Battle of Yalu 64
Liao-yang 214
Battle of Liao-yang 228
From the Yalu to Port Arthur
Chapter I
THE ORIGIN OF THE WAR.
For the origin of the war between Russia and Japan we must glance
back over three centuries. After the famous expedition of 1592–8,
Korea was bound to Japan by the closest ties. It was an independent
Kingdom in “political intercourse” with the Japanese as distinguished
from countries like Holland and China, whose relations were purely
commercial. For this reason the Government at Seoul was notified in
1869 of the overthrow of the Shagunate and the restoration of the
Imperial Authority. Ignorant of events beyond her own borders, and
animated by a spirit of aggressive conservatism, Korea refused to
acknowledge the new Government and returned a defiant and insulting
answer to the representations of the Mikado.
Upon this issue the newly organised Government in Japan was divided.
One party was for vindicating the national honour by appeal to arms;
the other party was for peace at any price. The peace party prevailed
and Field Marshal Saigo, who more than any other man was responsible
for the new order of things and for the restoration of the Imperial
power, withdrew from public life. Trusted and beloved by the people, he
was followed into retirement by several hundred soldiers and civilians
who held office under the new Government. When Saigo emerged from
privacy it was as leader of the rebellion of 1877, which was quelled
after a sanguinary struggle that lasted eight months.
Meanwhile the Koreans were encouraged to acts of aggression, and a
Japanese gunboat, taking soundings near Chemulpo, was fired upon. The
fort was attacked and the garrison dispersed. Recognising the Chinese
claim of suzerainty over Korea, the Japanese entered into negotiations
in Pekin. But the Government of China declined to be responsible for
the acts of this tributary kingdom, and declared that the Koreans had
complete liberty to do whatever they liked in all matters of State,
whether internal or external. Upon this repudiation of her suzerain
power, the Japanese despatched a mission to Korea and a treaty was
made between the two countries. The preamble to that document contains
a precise declaration that Korea is “an independent country, equal to
Japan.”
As soon as the danger was past, China, after her wont, sought to
reassert her claim to suzerain power. By stealthy and underhand means
she strove to regain her authority over Korea. Chinese interference
in the foreign affairs of the Hermit Kingdom became acute in 1882 and
was the cause of the riots at Seoul. These disturbances were directed
against the Japanese colony and legation, and, being met by intrigues
on the part of the Japanese residents, were responsible for the war
between China and Japan in 1894–5.
No sooner had peace been concluded than Russian intrigue took the place
of Chinese, and Japan found herself threatened by a more persistent
and formidable rival for control over her neighbour Korea. Having
just been deprived of the fruits of victory by a coalition of Russia,
France and Germany, the Japanese were not prepared to enter immediately
upon a struggle with the Czar. They accordingly came to terms with
Russia, and on May 14th, 1896, an agreement was entered into at Seoul
between Baron Komura, _chargé d’affaires_--now Minister of Foreign
Affairs and chief negotiator of the treaty of peace at Portsmouth--and
M. J. Waeber, the representative of Russia. In the same year another
agreement was made at Moscow between the Marquis Yamagata--now chief of
staff at Imperial Head-Quarters--and Prince Lobanoff.
The vital part of that agreement is in the clause which states that
“with the object of relieving Korea from financial embarrassment,
Russia and Japan counsel the Government to suppress all useless charges
and to establish equilibrium between expenditure and revenue.
“If after the introduction of reforms recognised to be indispensable,
it becomes necessary to have recourse to external loans, the two
Governments (Russia and Japan) will in common accord lend their
support to Korea. The Governments of Japan and Russia will endeavour,
as far as the financial and economic situation of the countries will
admit, to leave to Korea the creation and maintenance of an armed
force of native police sufficiently large to preserve internal order
without foreign assistance. In the event of the contracting parties
desiring more precise or detailed definition, or in the event of other
points arising on which it may be necessary to act in concert, the
representatives of the two Powers shall be charged with the duty of
arriving at a friendly understanding.”
This treaty is the basis of the report that the Marquis Ito was
desirous of forming an alliance, not with Great Britain, but with
Russia. The ink was hardly dry before the Russian Government began to
display that bad faith which has characterised her policy in the East.
M. Alexieff, an official in the Treasury at St. Petersburgh, who is
not to be confused with the Admiral of the same name who figured so
prominently later on, was despatched as a sort of financial agent;
and several Russian military agents under the familiar guise of
“instructors” were imposed upon the King at Seoul, who was informed
that the number would be increased to twenty-six.
The Japanese Government was not made cognisant of these acts of
“pacific penetration,” nor was its opinion invited. As soon as the
Government in Tokyo became aware of the presence of these Russian
agents at Seoul, its representative at St. Petersburg was instructed
to enter a protest, and to point out that the action of the Russian
Government was in violation of the spirit of the agreement between
the Marquis Yamagata and Prince Lobanoff. Count Muravieff was at
that time Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Lobanoff having died
in the interval. The new Minister declared that the appointment of
these advisers and instructors was the act of Prince Lobanoff. While
disclaiming responsibility, Count Muravieff urged that the Emperor
of Korea was an independent Sovereign and that Russia could not well
refuse his request for agents and advisers. He promised, however, that
no more “military instructors” should be sent to Seoul, though it was
impossible to recall those already there.
This discussion was protracted with exasperating delays until news
reached Tokyo of the occupation of Kiao-chiao by Germany. Remembering
the part played by Germany after the war with China, the Japanese not
unnaturally suspected another act of collusion with Russia, and their
representative in St. Petersburg was instructed to invite an expression
of opinion on the subject. Count Muravieff treated the occupation as of
no consequence. The Russian Government, he remarked, did not look upon
the matter very seriously. The action of Germany was instigated by the
desire of the Emperor to stimulate enthusiasm for the expansion of the
navy and not by any motive of aggression in the Far East. Accordingly,
the Russian Government could take no step and could enter no protest
against the German occupation of a Chinese port.
That Kiao-chiao was the first card laid upon the table in this game of
diplomatic “bluff” was quickly apparent. Russia had already made up her
mind to acquire Port Arthur, and, with it, command of the Eastern Seas.
On the last day of the year 1897 Count Muravieff dined with the Czar
and the Empress Dowager, and on the first day of the New Year he had
an interview with the Japanese Minister at St. Petersburg. The Count
declared that the Czar was desirous of arriving at an understanding
about Korea on the basis of recognising the preponderant interest of
Japan in that country; Russia having there no interest other than
political and that of no great importance. The Empress Dowager, added
Count Muravieff, had expressed similar opinions, and they were anxious
to learn the views of the Japanese.
The Minister replied that nothing would be more welcome to the Japanese
Government, for ever since the Chinese war they had been very desirous
of coming to such an understanding about Korea. He himself, as the
Count well knew, had, throughout a whole year, endeavoured to bring
about an agreement of that kind, but had not succeeded. Invited to name
a day for beginning the negotiations, Count Muravieff displayed no
convincing alacrity. He had authority to do no more than communicate
the desire of the Czar and to ask in a general way the views of the
Japanese Minister. Further consideration was necessary and at an early
and convenient day he would make another communication.
The next step was taken in Tokyo, in January, 1898, when the Russian
Minister informed the Japanese Minister of Foreign Affairs that Russia
would support the “commercial and industrial interests” of Japan in
Korea, and was prepared to come to an understanding on that basis.
Experience had taught the Japanese to be wary in their dealings
with Russian diplomacy, and Tokyo required a pledge of good faith.
Before _pourparlers_ began, the Czar must recall from Korea his
“financial adviser” and “military instructors.”
Again Russia displayed no unseemly haste. While the Czar was
deliberating, a confidential information from China came to the
Japanese Government to the effect that Russia was demanding a long
lease of Port Arthur. There was the secret of this complacence toward
Germany and of these tentative offers to Japan. It was added that the
Chinese Government “would not reply in haste,” but would take advantage
of its reputation for never doing to-day what could be put off till the
morrow.
In the month of March an unforeseen incident arose in Korea which
solved the problem of “financial and military advisers.” M. Speyer,
formerly Russian Minister in Tokyo, had been transferred to Seoul, with
the promise that he should succeed to the representation in Pekin. M.
Speyer was a conscientious diplomatist, and when the Emperor of Korea
refused to accept certain proposals made by his Russian “financial and
military advisers,” he issued an ultimatum. His Majesty was allowed
twenty-four hours to decide whether he had need of these advisers.
M. Speyer would not have laid such a trap for himself and M. Alexieff
if he had not been convinced that the Emperor would be terrified into
acceptance of every demand. But His Majesty, assured of support from
another quarter and aware of the dispute between Russia and Japan,
showed unexpected firmness. After three days’ delay he informed M.
Speyer that he had no further need of Russian advisers, and, “with many
thanks for past services,” discharged them from their engagements. Here
was an _impasse_ from which there was no escape without betraying
the determination of the Czar not to relax his hold on Korea.
In St. Petersburg it was recognised that their representative had
managed the business badly and had defeated their carefully laid
scheme. M. Speyer accordingly did not go to Pekin, but was sent to
vegetate at Rio Janeiro. This incident removed every obstacle to
agreement on the subject of Korea, and on April 25th, 1898, was signed
the Nissi and Rosen Convention, which solved the problem of Russian
advisers.
Russia was the more ready to make this concession because nearly a
month before--on March 27--a convention had been signed in Pekin,
whereby China ceded to the Czar the use of Port Arthur, Talien and
the adjacent country. Count Muravieff was evidently convinced that
the withdrawal of the Russian advisers from Korea and the formal
recognition of Japan’s interest in that country would be regarded
in Tokyo as ample compensation for the occupation of Port Arthur.
He boldly expressed this opinion in an interview with the Japanese
Minister, who pointed out that, after all, this was a very one-sided
arrangement, inasmuch as, while Japan’s preponderant interests in
Korea were admitted, she was expressly forbidden by the Nissi-Rosen
convention to appoint advisers to the Emperor of Korea.
The occupation of Wei-hai-wei by Great Britain followed soon
afterwards. Russia clearly anticipated this move, for in April Count
Muravieff caused the Japanese Government to understand that, if they
desired it, China would give an assurance that, after the withdrawal of
the Japanese troops, Wei-hai-wei should not be conceded to any other
Power. Russia was prepared to assent to such an assurance, and was
willing to use her efforts to induce the other Powers to accept that
arrangement. From this act of amazing self-denial Russia was saved by
the Japanese and British Governments. Japan declared that she had no
wish to impose such a condition in the terms of evacuation, and Great
Britain, with the connivance of the Government in Tokyo, and in despite
of Russia, calmly stepped into Wei-hai-wei.
These facts, which cannot be disputed, afford abundant evidence of
the extreme moderation of the Japanese demands. They prove that the
Japanese manifested no hostility to the Russian occupation of Port
Arthur, but were prepared to make great concessions in order to secure
the heritage of Korea, to which they were entitled by conquest, by
“pacific penetration,” and by the necessities of geographical position.
But appetite comes with eating. Having absorbed Port Arthur and begun
on Manchuria, Russia saw no reason why she should not have Korea
also. When her Imperial company promoters and traders crossed the
Yalu, Japanese patience was exhausted. Her fleet and army had been
more successful than her diplomatists, and were more ready to accept
the challenge. The Anglo-Japanese alliance--the sequel to the Russian
occupation of Manchuria after the Boxer trouble--ensured for her a fair
fight, and Japan proceeded to demonstrate to an amazed world that the
Muscovite giant, who had long overshadowed the East, has feet of clay
and the hollowness of sounding brass.
Chapter II
JAPANESE STUDY OF THE RUSSIAN ARMY.
The issues of war are not determined by numbers and bank balances. If
victory depended on these factors the British Empire would never have
been created. Our forefathers happily knew not the law of military
science that judges the strength of an army by its size. They were
conscious of another factor that cannot be expressed in figures, in
differences of armament or even in the genius of commanders. This
factor is the spirit of the army. Intangible as the law of gravitation,
it cannot be stated in terms of any known value, yet it gives momentum
to the mass, and without it discipline is but blind obedience, and
courage the mere absence of fear. The duty of military science should
be to determine this factor not less than to ascertain the numerical
strength and armament of an enemy.
Mindful of this duty the Japanese studied the character of the
Russian soldier and found him lacking in qualities that make an army
invincible. The best testimony I can offer on this subject is a
confidential paper written by General Fujii, Chief of the Staff of
General Kuroki’s Army and Commandant of the Staff College. It is a
concise and modest document, yet it contains psychological truths of
greater value than columns of facts and figures.
It is clear from this official survey that the Japanese did not accept
the European estimate of the fighting capacity of their enemy. A
military _attaché_ who was in a large measure responsible for
British official opinion of the Russian army exclaimed after the battle
of Liao-yang: “My reputation is gone! For years I have been urging that
Russian troops are invincible and here am I running away with them
every day!”
The Staff in Tokyo were under no delusion. After careful study and
observation they discovered the weak places in the Muscovite armour and
were never for a moment doubtful of the issue. They knew the capacity
of the Russian officer, his want of initiative, his proneness to
jealousy and divided counsel, his readiness to put personal interest
and comfort before every other consideration.
Among the multitude of things left behind by the Russians in their
retreat from Liao-yang not the least interesting and valuable were the
general orders issued from day to day by their Commander-in-Chief.
They disclose the gravest defects in the discipline of the army, and
more especially of the Cossacks. It appears from them that the Colonel
of one Cossack regiment was removed from his command for deserting a
post of great importance at the mere rumour of the approach of the
enemy and without writing to inform the force to his immediate front--a
defection that endangered the whole movement. Two Colonels of the 23rd
East Siberian Regiment were cashiered for reasons not stated, and the
Commanding Officer of the 3rd Ural Cossacks was dismissed the service
for conduct unworthy of an officer and for habitual drunkenness.
These are only a few examples of the looseness of discipline in the
higher commissioned ranks. Numbers of Russian officers, according to
the testimony of British and French Missionaries in Liao-yang, were
drinking with courtesans while their regiments were fighting at the
front. Many also were censured by General Kuropatkin for discussing in
public the conduct of the war and the character of their seniors in
rank.
The state of affairs disclosed in these documents confirmed the
Japanese in their opinion that the Russians were inferior to themselves
in discipline and training, and will strengthen the conviction of all
who have mingled with Russian military and naval officers that the army
officer is often a person of inferior character and social position. So
marked, indeed, is the distinction, that Russian naval officers rarely
accept on a footing of social equality their comrades in the army.
Of General Kuropatkin as Commander-in-Chief the Japanese staff never
entertained a very high opinion. They were inclined to the opinion of
Skobeleff under whom Kuropatkin laid the foundation of his reputation.
“You are an ambitious man and will have a fine career, but do not
forget my advice. Never accept an independent post in which you will
have to direct affairs.” The truth is that after the battle of the
Yalu, the Japanese refused to accept the European opinion that General
Kuropatkin was a great strategist and skilful in manœuvre.
“He lost his opportunity after the Yalu,” said General Fujii, than
whom there is no more competent critic. “Kuropatkin may be a great
organiser, but in the field he is not to be feared.”
Neither did the Japanese understand the chorus of praise over
Kuropatkin’s “masterly retreats.” They have not reached the decadent
stage which accepts even successful retreat as a proof of military
capacity. The Japanese estimate of the Russian General may be given
in one sentence from the lips of a distinguished soldier: “He never
attempts any great movement, but is always content with nibbling and
retiring.”
While not under-rating the courage of the Russian soldier, the Japanese
looked upon him as an ignorant and stupid peasant, who is easily
depressed by failure.
“They are an imperfectly educated, strongly religious and _naïve_
sort of people. If there is a great hero to lead and set them an
example they are not men to fear death, as was seen at Plevna,
where they piled up corpses for earthworks and dashed into the
enemy’s trenches. Yet if they meet any little reverse they are at
once terrified and panic-stricken, and run away in confusion. It is
therefore necessary to frighten them in the beginning.”
I am quoting from the confidential study of the Russian army, to which
I would add the practical comment of an officer who fought from the
Yalu to the Sha-ho: “We always win in the last ten minutes, because the
Russians will not stay long enough.”
Their infantry often charge with the bayonet, but they have little
skill in its use, and none at all in individual encounter.”
And what of the Cossack, about whom tradition has woven a dazzling and
invincible fame? The Japanese dismiss him with mild contempt, which
events have justified.
“The Cossack in the war of 1877 made no heroic movement. His reputation
is built entirely on his own reports, which are always exaggerated. He
invariably retires when met by a stronger force. If our infantry is a
little careful we need have no fear of the Cossack.”
In this estimate of the Russian army I have abstained from expressing
any personal opinion, knowing that it would be valueless. Those who
have any curiosity to study the Japanese view will be rewarded by
consulting General Fujii’s paper, which will be found in the appendix.
I would add only this tribute to the bravery of the Russian soldiers.
If they do not know how to fight they know at least how to die. Never
except over the ruins of Fort Shishishan in the last days of Port
Arthur have I seen the white flag.
Chapter III
THE JAPANESE SOLDIER AND RUSSIAN OPINION.
The soldier in the field is always an interesting study. The absence
of those influences that regulate habits and manners in cities: the
communism and openness of his life all tend to make him the natural
man, to bring out his true character and to develop in him the manly
qualities--patience, self-restraint, ingenuity and courage.
In none of these qualities is the Japanese soldier deficient. He has
the patience of Job, and centuries have fixed in him the habit of
self-restraint. His ingenuity is characteristic of an artistic race.
He adapts himself readily to his environment. Whether billetted in the
wretched and filthy hovels of Korea, in the spacious, solid and dirty
houses of China, or on the bleak hillside, he makes himself at home.
In a few hours the place is clean and tidy, and a spray of hawthorn or
wild peach reminds him of the cherry blossom at home. By instinct and
habit the Japanese are a clean people, and there is not in the world
a cleaner army. Their food is simple and wholesome: they rarely drink
anything stronger than boiled water; their regard for sanitary laws is
great, and, as I shall presently show, the mortality in the field from
disease is so small as to be almost incredible.
Of the courage and discipline of the Japanese soldier we have
convincing proof in the Boxer trouble. A trained observer has put
on record: “The admirable spirit shown by all ranks; their reckless
courage and absolute disregard for danger and their perfect discipline
... cannot be too highly praised.” It is a common error to suppose that
the Japanese acquired their skill in war with the adoption of modern
arms and European dress. The truth is that they have been a race of
warriors for ages. Until long after the middle of the last century
they lived under feudal lords exactly as our forefathers lived in the
days of the Black Prince. The habits and instincts formed under feudal
conditions are still strong. The spirit of obedience is paramount,
and there is no danger that the Japanese soldier will not face at the
command of his officer. That allegiance which he paid to his feudal
lord he has given to his Emperor, who is the fountain of all virtues
and the source of every victory.
To many it may seem strange that from a hostile community of military
clans there has sprung in less than half a century a nation instinct
with the most fervid patriotism. Like many other “miracles” in Japan,
this is a natural phenomenon, and was visible in Scotland as far back
as the days of the Stuarts. Whatever its origin there is no gainsaying
the patriotism. It is strong and relentless as the sea, and has
carried the Japanese army over many bloody leagues.
His endurance is not less remarkable than his courage. He can march
far, work hard, and fight like a Trojan on a handful of rice, a few
slices of the root of the lotus and a pickled plum. He never grumbles
at “fatigue” work. The word “grouse” has no place in the soldier’s
vocabulary. He will pull a gun through the mire, make a road over the
swamp, and drag a heavily-laden cart as cheerfully as he will charge a
trench filled with riflemen.
Another advantage the Japanese army can claim. It is well officered.
The men to whom are entrusted not merely brigades but regiments and
companies may be relied upon to show the finest qualities that the
profession of arms can develop. Yet if I was asked to state in one
sentence why the Japanese have been victorious in every battle on sea
and land, I would say: “It is because every Japanese goes into action
determined to die, and it is therefore the other man who dies.”
How did the Russians regard the Japanese? What estimate did they form
of the fighting qualities of their enemy? That the Russians had made
careful study of the Japanese army is manifest from confidential papers
found upon prisoners. These documents, which will be seen in the
appendix to this volume, are the work of an experienced soldier. The
technical parts dealing with the constitution, training, discipline,
and methods of fighting are instructive. But, for the moment, it is
the deductions and generalisations that interest. How inaccurate and
misleading these are may be judged from one or two examples.
[Illustration: Japanese Marching Order: Front View.]
[Illustration: Japanese Marching Order: Back View.]
“The Japanese infantry never attack with the bayonet; they believe that
against the modern rifle bayonet attacks are impracticable, and that
the issue must be decided by powder and shot.... They do not recognise
the necessity of continuing the fight within reach of the bayonet.”
Nothing could be further from the truth, as anyone who reads these
pages may discover for himself. The Japanese love the _arme
blanche_, and never hesitate to use it. With the bayonet they have
proved themselves again and again to be most dangerous foemen, whether
singly or _en masse_. Before Liao-yang a whole division charged
and carried a position at the point of the bayonet and never fired
a shot. At the Sha-ho bayonet charges were almost hourly incidents,
and demonstrated the fallacy, born in South Africa, that entrenched
positions are unassailable save by powder and shot. The Japanese
recognise no “lethal zone swept by a horizontal sheet of lead” within
four hundred yards of an entrenched enemy. They found this the zone of
comparative safety from rifle fire, and went in with the bayonet.
“The Japanese make frontal attacks without attempting turning
movements.”
This certainly has not been characteristic of the operations in
Manchuria. Wide flanking movements have been the distinguishing feature
in Japanese tactics as well as in their strategy. It is true that at
the battle of the Yalu they claimed to have won the victory by direct
frontal attack, yet it cannot be denied that the flanking movement
in the mountains on the east was the immediate cause of the Russian
retirement.
“The Japanese do not like night attacks and night marches.”
Night attacks and night marches are always difficult and hazardous,
and are not “liked” by any army, but the Japanese have never shown any
reluctance to use the cover of night. From the Yalu to the Sha-ho the
campaign has been remarkable for the number of night marches and night
attacks, some of which, according to Japanese staff officers, have been
on a scale never before attempted.
I have given now a general idea of the fighting capacities of the
rival forces as they appeared to one another. Those who are interested
in technical details will do well to study the appendices. Enough,
however, has been said in these chapters to enable the reader to follow
with some insight the narrative of the active campaign.
Chapter IV
THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN AND THE JAPANESE LEADERS.
A glance at the map will show that the Russian defence lay within an
irregular triangle, of which Harbin is the apex, and Port Arthur and
Vladivostock are the angles at the base. The railway from Harbin to
Port Arthur passes through several towns, like Mukden, Liao-yang and
Hai-cheng, upon which the Russians could concentrate rapidly, but south
of Hai-cheng the line runs along the coast, and is open to flank attack
from the sea.
From Harbin to Vladivostock the line of defence may be said roughly to
traverse Kirwin and to sweep Eastward to the coast. On the land side
Vladivostock is defended by the difficult nature of the country and by
the river Toumen, which covers its approach from the South-west. So
isolated, however, is this fortress that its capture was an incident
that did not enter into the first phase of the campaign.
The base of the triangle from the mouth of the Yalu to the Toumen is
the strongest line of defence, and was the first to be assailed. The
Yalu forms a natural barrier along the north of Korea. Winding its
tortuous length between high and rugged mountains it receives as
affluents many torrents and impetuous streams. A few miles from the
point where its waters mingle with the ocean, the banks of the Yalu
descend into the plain. Upon this lower ground on the left of the
river is the town of Wiju, and on the right nearer to the bay stands
Antung. At Wiju you may cross the Yalu; it is the key to the barrier of
mountain and flood that divides the hermit kingdom from Manchuria.
To force the passage of the river by direct assault would have been
to risk disaster at the outset. It was necessary to make a diversion
in order to turn the position and compel the Russians to fall back
along the road to Liao-yang. Such a movement required great skill and
secrecy. In 1894 the Japanese effected a landing near the mouth of the
river and on the right bank, so as to envelop Antung and Wiju from the
North.
With a view to mislead the enemy General Kuroki made a demonstration in
front of Antung, where the Russians awaited attack, while he pushed his
flanking movement through the almost inaccessible mountains on the
East.
When the Japanese crossed the Yalu, their real difficulties began. The
country South of Mukden is a sea of mountains, and there was always in
the mind of General Kuroki’s staff the fear that General Kuropatkin
would detach a large force from the Peninsula and succeed in isolating
the Japanese army in Manchuria. To guard against that danger troops
were landed at Takushan, West of Antung, and formed a new _point
d’appui_, from which a strong flank was pushed steadily toward
the narrow peninsula. The purpose of this movement was not merely to
protect General Kuroki’s army, but to cover the army that was about to
land in the Liao-tung Peninsula. Here again the Russians were taken by
surprise. They expected a descent upon Nieuchang, on the West coast of
the Gulf, which seemed an ideal point from which to threaten Liao-yang
through Hai-cheng, to cut off Port Arthur, and to turn the position.
But again the Japanese adopted the strategy of the Chinese War, and
despite the report of its impregnable strength, forced a landing at
Kin-chou at the neck of the Kwanlung Peninsula.
From this point the Japanese plan of campaign, if it did not actually
miscarry, was at any rate tardy in development. It was not anticipated
that Port Arthur would be capable of prolonged defence. Recalling their
experience with the Chinese in 1884, the Japanese felt certain that the
fortress would be captured in a few weeks, and that General Nogi’s army
would move North into line with General Kuroki. Had they foreseen that
several months would be spent in difficult and costly siege operations,
they would have been content with investing Port Arthur, clearing
the peninsula, and joining their forces for an immediate attack on
Liao-yang.
The task of driving the Russians North was given to the Third Army,
with whose advent in the peninsula began the active campaign on land
under the direction of Field Marshal Oyama and the Head Quarter Staff.
The Liao-tung Peninsula was rapidly cleared, and the Russians were
driven back upon their main defences at Liao-yang, leaving Port Arthur
to its fate.
The men who were responsible for this plan of campaign were the members
of the Imperial and Headquarter Staffs. In the Marquis Yamagata, who
remained in Tokyo with the Emperor, was vested almost absolute power.
He is a man of remarkable character and ability, and is regarded as the
creator of the national army out of bands of feudal retainers. With him
was associated as Assistant Chief of the Staff, General Nagaoka, whose
acquaintance with Europe, and especially with France, made him an able
coadjutor. In the Minister for War--General Terauchi, himself a soldier
of repute and experience, the Imperial Staff had another invaluable
assistant.
The direction of operations in the field was vested in Field Marshal
the Marquis Oyama--a soldier of wide experience and attractive
personality, in whose character is a strange mixture of caution and
reckless daring. I have observed in the constitution of every Japanese
Staff a remarkable combination of character and experience. It will be
found almost invariably that the Commander is a man of mature years,
distinguished for caution--a soldier with no European training, and
speaking no language save Japanese--and that with him is associated
as Chief of the Staff a younger and more active man of more rapid
cerebration and greater daring--a soldier who has had experience in
Europe. This combination works admirably, the Commander acting as a
brake and the Chief of the Staff as a propeller.
General Kodama, Chief of Marquis Oyama’s staff, is a most interesting
personality, and is popularly regarded as the brain of the army. He
comes of a fighting race, having been born half a century ago in the
province of Choshu, one of the four great Daimiates that have given
an unbroken succession of warriors and rulers to Japan. The Marquis
Ito, the most famous of modern statesmen, Count Inouye, ablest of
administrators and diplomatists, and Field Marshal Yamagata are from
Choshu. Indeed, there is only one other clan that has the heritage of
power. If you are not of Satsuma you must be of Choshu. Hence the term
“Sat-Cho,” familiar in politics to denote the combination of these
great Daimiates. The province in which General Kodama was born played a
foremost part in the revolution that overthrew the Shogun and restored
the authority of the Mikado. His clansmen were the first to cast aside
armour and sword and spear, and to adopt the arms, discipline, and
tactics of Europe. Baron Kodama was sixteen years old when Japan began
to throw off her feudal chains, and the revolution swept him into the
forces arraigned against feudalism.
In 1871 feudalism was dead. Shogun and Daimios were driven into private
life and the Emperor was released from enforced seclusion at Kioto. But
the seeds of disaffection remained, and in 1874 rebellion broke out
in the province of Hizen, one of the Daimiates that had combined to
destroy the Shogun. Kodama was a captain, having received his company
twelve months before, and was sent with the Osaka division to Saga,
as adjutant. The rebellion was suppressed in ten days, yet it lasted
long enough to display the courage and determination of the young
soldier. With a bullet through each arm he continued to pursue the
rebels until help came and the rout was complete. On his return to the
capital he was promoted to the rank of major and received the thanks
of the Emperor. His services were in demand three years later when
civil war again ravaged the country. Major Kodama was with the Imperial
troops besieged in the castle of Kumamoto by the rebels of Satsuma.
The garrison suffered terrible privations and was relieved with great
difficulty. As soon as the siege was raised Kodama took the field once
more and fought several battles. In 1889 he was gazetted major-general
and in the following year was sent to Europe to study the military
systems of the western nations. During the war with China he held the
important appointment of Vice Minister of War. In 1900 he was appointed
Governor General of the Island of Formosa, a post which he retains
although in 1903 he was summoned to Tokyo to take the portfolio of Home
Secretary.
When Baron Kodama--he was raised to the peerage in 1895 with a step in
rank as lieutenant-general--became a member of the Cabinet there was
a universal cry for bold administration, and the hopes of reformers
centered on the soldier-statesman to whom they had given the name
“Minister of the Axe” because of his declaration that in politics as in
battle a sharp axe is better than a blunt knife.
The encroachments of Russia in Manchuria and Korea turned Kodama’s
energies and thoughts from politics to war, and in October of 1903,
when Major-General Tamura died, he left the Cabinet to discharge the
duties of assistant chief of the Head Quarter Staff, a post to which
he was called not only by the voice of the people but by his comrades
in arms. In this responsible and difficult position, the General has
given proof of foresight and perseverance that have distinguished him
throughout his career. He is a man of strong character and possesses in
no small degree the indefinable quality known as personal magnetism. As
a staff officer his clear head, his sound and ready judgment and his
mastery of detail have been of the highest service. He has the infinite
capacity for taking pains which Michael Angelo called genius. Night
and day he sits at his desk attending to the multitudinous details of
a great war, yet his door is never closed to a friend or even to the
stranger who has any claim upon his attention.
Captain Tanaka, the baron’s aide-de-camp, is a typical example of the
new school. His knowledge of England is not confined to the language;
it extends to our military history in its obscurest details, and his
spare moments are spent in translating into Japanese the tactical books
of our army.
General Fukushima, Director of Military Intelligence, is a
much-travelled soldier and speaks English. He journeyed alone through
Siberia in 1892, and brought back valuable reports that confirmed
the high opinion of his special talent. At that time he was only a
lieutenant-colonel, and his fame had not gone beyond a small official
circle. When he returned from Siberia he was appointed to the Staff and
was sent on a mission of investigation to China, Korea, and Russia.
During the Chinese war he commanded a regiment, and was afterwards
made Governor of Formosa, but resigned the post in consequence of some
difference of opinion on the subject of the pigtail of the nationalized
Chinese. Once more he took the road, and journeyed through India,
Persia, and Turkey, with eyes that saw everything, ears that heard
everything, and a memory that forgot nothing. In the Boxer troubles
General Fukushima was in command of the Japanese contingent that
took part in the Tientsin-Pekin operations, when the Japanese troops
distinguished themselves for reckless courage and perfect discipline.
The first general to take the field was General Kuroki. Born in the
province of Satsuma sixty-one years ago, Baron Kuroki springs from
the warrior class and was trained from infancy in the lessons of
endurance, courage, and chivalry. In the revolution he fought for
the Emperor against the Shogun, who had usurped all save the name
of Mikado. He received his company in 1871, and six years later, as
lieutenant-colonel, marched to the relief of Kumamoto Castle, where
General Kodama and the Imperial troops were besieged by rebellious
members of his own Satsuma clan. As soon as this civil war was over
he joined the Staff, and was promoted to the rank of major-general in
1885. In the early stages of the war with China, General Kuroki was
engaged in the work of mobilisation, but when the struggle developed he
was despatched to the front with the rank of lieutenant-general, and
commanded one of the divisions that took Wei-hai-wei after a desperate
resistance by the Chinese.
Like all brave leaders, General Kuroki is greatly beloved by his men.
General Fujii, Chief of the Staff of the First Army, is one of the most
able and popular officers in the army. He entered the service as a
cadet and is now only forty-three years of age. Leaving Germany, where
he was military _attaché_ for four years, he joined the Staff of
Field-Marshal Oyama during the Chinese War, and fought at Port Arthur
and Wei-hai-wei. After acting as instructor in the Staff College he
returned to Europe as _attaché_ in Vienna, and came back to Japan
to be chief instructor in the Staff College. Immediately before the war
he made an adventurous journey through Korea, and gained much knowledge
of the country that was of service to the army.
It was my good fortune to have the friendship of General Fujii and
to have profited greatly by his experience and counsel, of which
many indications may be found in this volume. He is a man of ready
sympathy and phenomenal powers of work. Full of resource and daring, he
possesses, in an astonishing measure, that concentration and detachment
of mind which is found only in men of the highest capacity. I recall
one example. During a battle General Fujii sent for me and laughingly
complained that I never ventured near him. I replied that I would
not dream of approaching him at so critical a time. “When you see me
smoking a cigar you may know that I am ready to talk with you on any
subject you like.” As the general was always smoking I had no scruples
in the future, though, lest the stock of cigars should fail, it was my
habit to present him with a few cigars before the fighting began.
When I look back and endeavour to form an estimate of the character
of those who direct the Japanese army, I am bound to confess that no
country in the world can boast of men more endowed by nature and better
equipped by training for the desperate service of war. Their energy and
industry are not less remarkable than their ability and devotion to
duty. When a man falls short of this high standard--and there have been
a few such men--he disappears and not a protest is heard. No one in
Japan would propose to make Field Marshals of their failures.
Chapter V
THE LANDING IN KOREA.
It was of supreme importance that Pyng-yang should be occupied
without delay. Once in the possession of that city the Japanese could
command three points for the landing of troops in Korea-Fusan, on the
South-East, Chemulpo on the West, twenty-six miles from the capital,
and Chinampo, whence Pyng-yang, forty miles distant, could be reached
by road and river. Moreover, it was desirable to avoid a contest, for
Ping-yang, as the Japanese found in 1894, is not easy to attack from
the South. But caution, as well as speed and secrecy, was necessary.
Though the diplomatic rupture was complete, hostilities had not begun,
and the command of the sea was undetermined.
Fusan was secure as long as the Japanese fleet controlled the Korean
Strait; as a port, it had many drawbacks. Facilities for landing were
poor. Only a few miles of railway had been laid, and the distance
from Seoul was two hundred and sixty-seven miles. Soun-chen, in the
Gulf of Tai-kang, between Fusan and Mokpo, was more convenient, and
arrangements were made to disembark troops at that port. Roads were
constructed, relay stations and supply depots were established, and it
was calculated that the capital could be reached by the first days of
April. Thus, while neglecting no preparation in the South, the Japanese
kept their eyes and hopes fixed on the Northern ports, and were ready
to seize the first opening.
The First Army was mobilised on February the 6th. Twenty-four hours
later some men of the Twelfth Division landed at Chemulpo and entered
Seoul without opposition. Transports arrived on the 8th, and landed
troops in the presence of two Russian warships. Next day, Admiral
Urui, who commanded the escorting squadron, carried out his orders
which were to destroy the Russian cruisers and to secure the landing
of the army at Chemulpo. The Varyag, a first-class cruiser, the
Korietz, a third-class cruiser, and the transport Sungari were sunk in
the harbour, and the port and capital of Korea were in the hands of
the Japanese. This swift and unexpected blow was followed by a naval
victory at Port Arthur, which advanced the campaign by one month.
In seven days Japan had won control of the Korean Gulf. Fusan was
no longer needed as a base, and the weary march of two hundred and
sixty miles from Soun-chen was avoided. Troops began to debark at
Chemulpo without let or hinderance save such as arose from the absence
of landing facilities. Small boats were few, and wharfage and shore
accommodation were wanting. The result was that transports were delayed
two or three days, and that part of the Fourteenth Regiment, which
reached the mouth of the Salee river on the 18th of February, did not
land until the 21st. One company of this regiment was already hurrying
towards Pyng-yang, conscious of the importance of the mission with
which it was entrusted. Landed at Chemulpo on the 6th, this company
advanced by forced marches and reached Pyng-yang not a moment too soon,
for the Russian cavalry were fifteen miles North, and on the 28th a
troop of Cossacks appeared at the North gate of the city. Here the
first shots on land were exchanged, and the Russians retired.
Pyng-yang is situated on the river Tai-tong, about sixty miles from the
coast, and is the capital of the province. Long before the Christian
era it was the seat of Government, and remained the centre of royal
authority until the tenth century, when the turbulence of the people
and repeated assaults by the Chinese drove the Court to Seoul. It is a
collection of mean and squalid houses, the number of which is estimated
at three hundred thousand. Beyond the ancient walls, which have
withstood many a savage raid, dwells a large and scattered population,
who cultivate the great plain that extends to the foot of the hill on
which the city is built. From a military point of view Pyng-yang is
of great importance. Standing on the Great Mandarin road, along which
tribute was borne to Pekin, it commands the approach to Seoul, which is
one hundred and seventy-six miles distant, to Gensan, an open port on
the north-east coast, and to Chinampo, twenty miles from the mouth of
the Tai-tong, the natural base of supplies where the Japanese landed
their stores during the Chinese War in 1894.
Had the Russians realised the importance that the Japanese attached to
the immediate and unopposed occupation of Pyng-yang they would surely
have made some effort to delay the advance of this small force. They
knew, of course, that it would give their enemy a strategic position
and would provide them with a base at Chinampo--a few days march from
the Yalu. But they did not forsee what use the Japanese would make of
the coast North of the Tai-tong River, and what a disastrous effect
this would have in their first encounter.
The duty assigned to General Kuroki’s army was to march North as
quickly as possible, to discover the enemy and to give him battle.
With Pyng-yang in his possession, the task was less difficult than it
had appeared at the beginning of February. But many obstacles had to
be overcome and many problems solved before the army could advance
with safety and a definite purpose. Having no certain knowledge of the
strength and intentions of the enemy, General Kuroki had to make plans
for every contingency. He was aware that the Russians were entrenched
on the North bank of the Yalu, yet he was by no means sure that they
would not oppose him somewhere South of the river.
General Michtchenko’s movements darkened the councils of the Japanese
who were disposed to ascribe to them an intelligent purpose. When the
Russian leader came to Syen-chen in a four-wheeled carriage he had
with him 2,500 Cossacks and one battery of Field Artillery. With this
force he occupied Anju, an important town on the Mandarin road, about
thirty miles North of Pyng-yang. His next step was to send Korean
spies to discover the movements of the enemy. Now the Korean looked
upon the Russian as an unwelcome guest who occupied his house, ate
his food, frightened away his women, and left him at the mercy of
agents and interpreters to whose dirty palms stuck the roubles paid in
compensation. His one ambition was to get rid of these visitors. Spies
accordingly returned with reports that the Japanese were coming in
great force from three directions. These stories had the effect they
were intended to produce, and the Cossacks retired North with artillery
and transport, destroying the telegraph wires and encouraging the
natives to use the poles for fuel.
The constitution of General Michtchenko’s force was another cause of
perplexity. It was not easy to understand why a cavalry brigade should
come as far South as Syen-chen into difficult mountainous country. If
the object was to delay the advance of the Japanese, the cavalry would
have been accompanied by a considerable force of infantry. On the other
hand, if the purpose was merely to discover as quickly as possible the
approach of the enemy, spies could have brought the information. Some
deep laid scheme must lie hidden behind this mysterious cavalry screen.
Thus argued the Japanese who were slow to admit so obvious a tactical
error on the part of their adversary. As a matter of fact, General
Michtchenko had no great scheme. He was simply committing an elementary
mistake which he emphasised by retiring along the main road where he
had no opportunity of using his cavalry to ascertain the strength and
direction of the Japanese advance.
Chapter VI
THE NORTHERN ADVANCE.
General Kuroki and his staff arrived at Pyng-yang on March 21st, and
began to prepare for the advance. Four problems had first to be solved.
At what point were the Russians likely to offer serious resistance?
Along what road must the Japanese march? How were three divisions to be
supplied with food and ammunition? Was it possible to transport heavy
artillery to the Yalu? Without precise information as to the enemy’s
plans the first question could not be answered. It was known, of
course, that the Russians had an entrenched position North of the Yalu,
but of their strength beyond Pyng-yang General Kuroki was ignorant.
Spies reported that the enemy had not bridged the river, but were able
to cross the ice West of Wiju by means of planks and straw. There was,
consequently, nothing to prevent the Russians from appearing in force
South of the Yalu before the Japanese army could be concentrated at a
point near the river.
General Kuroki had to take precautions against this contingency.
Reconnaissances showed that the Cossacks were hovering about the river
which flows through Anju, but whether with artillery and infantry
could not be ascertained. Uncertain of what lay behind this cavalry
screen, General Kuroki prepared to fight in the course of his advance
on the river.
Anju accordingly became the next objective. The Second Division had
landed at the mouth of the Tai-tong river on March 16th, and before the
21st the greater part of the Twelfth Division had marched from Seoul to
Ping-yang. The advance was begun a few days later, and was made in this
order. The three divisions formed a line about thirty miles north of
Ping-yang, stretching from Syunchong on the East through Sukchon on the
main road and onward towards the coast. On the right, near Syunchong,
was the Twelfth Division: in the centre, at Sukchon, was the Guards
Division, and on the left was the Second Division.
As the troops moved rapidly Northward their difficulties increased.
Despite the labours of an army of sappers the roads were in a terrible
state. The surface, frozen to a depth of twelve inches, began to melt,
and man and horse plunged through morass and quagmire. At Pyng-yang it
was comparatively easy to feed three divisions because of the river,
but the task grew heavier with every mile, for transport trains that
were intended to cover six ri a day could often march only two ri.
Native coolies were engaged in tens of thousands, yet even these did
not suffice, and the army must have suffered serious privations had it
not been that Korea, unlike Manchuria, produces large quantities of
rice and that the people were willing to sell.
At Anju it was apparent that the Russians did not intend to oppose the
advance South of the Yalu. General Kuroki accordingly halted to collect
supplies at that place and to complete his plans. Assuming that no
battle would be fought until the Yalu was reached, the army must march
seven days and each division must have twenty-one days supplies of food
and ammunition. It was calculated that at least four weeks’ stores
must be collected at Anju before the advance could begin. Fortunately
it was possible now to send ships from Chinampo to the mouth of the
river Tching-chien, so that Anju was provisioned more quickly than the
Japanese had anticipated.
From Anju General Kuroki had choice of two roads. He might march
along the Mandarin road that runs direct to Wiju, or he might take
the Eastern road which passes through Yunsan and reaches the Yalu
at Chosan. Natives declared that field guns and wheeled transport
could not move along the Eastern road, whereas if the Mandarin road
was repaired in certain places the passage of guns and carts was
practicable. In one respect, at least, there was no uncertainty. No
sooner would the army begin to march along one road than it would
regret that it had not chosen the other. But there were considerations
more important than those of ease. It was imperative that the force
should be on the same road that the main body of the enemy would select
if by any chance the Russians made up their minds to come South of
the Yalu. As far as that river the Mandarin road was undoubtedly the
better, but beyond the Yalu the Eastern road was good and would be more
convenient in the event of the Japanese having to turn the intrenched
position at Chiu-lien-cheng or to march directly on Liao-yang. To
divide the army and send it by both roads would facilitate transport,
but in the face of a strong and enterprising foe this would be
dangerous tactics, for there were no lateral communications or
cross-roads.
The Japanese Staff decided to make use of both roads. A mixed brigade
was sent by the Eastern route through Yunsan, while the main body of
two and a half divisions advanced along the Mandarin road. Once more
arose the serious question of supplying with food and ammunition this
great force on the march. The stores accumulated at Anju would not
suffice, as they could not be sent forward quickly enough. It was
necessary to discover another sea base further North. To make wide
reconnaisances was not easy, seeing that the enemy’s cavalry were still
South of the Yalu. But the Japanese had two strong incentives. Besides
the question of food was that of the heavy artillery. At Chinampo were
two batteries of 5-inch howitzers that must be carried to the Yalu
with speed and secrecy. To transport them by the main road, even if
practicable, would be to disclose their presence to the Russians, who
were confident that nothing heavier than field guns could be brought to
the Yalu.
Volunteers were not wanting to undertake this dangerous enterprise.
Officers of the navy and army put off in small boats under cover of
night, and searched every mile of the coast and of the tracks leading
therefrom. The peninsula of South-West of Charenkwan was deemed the
best place, and General Kuroki decided to send a force sufficient to
cover the landing of guns and supplies at Richao. A large number of men
would be needed should the Russians discover the secret and descend
into the peninsula. But again rose the problem of feeding a detached
body of troops, whose sea communications were dependent on the weather
and on the absence of a Russian squadron. After careful calculation
General Kuroki came to the conclusion that he could not send more than
two regiments of cavalry and one regiment of infantry. This force
accordingly marched North and came to Chonju on March 28th. General
Michtchenko four days earlier had received a message reproaching him
for having allowed Pyng-yang to be occupied by a single company of
Japanese infantry, and commanding him to do something to check the
rapid advance of the enemy. He accordingly went South with six hundred
Cossacks, and encountered the Japanese detached force under the walls
of Chonju.
The Russians attacked Chonju from three sides, and were opposed at
first by only a few soldiers who had been left to hold the town.
Hearing shots some cavalry of the Guard that had ridden North returned
with all speed, and messengers were despatched to warn the main body.
Hard pressed, and almost surrounded, the Japanese held a position South
of Chonju, until reinforced by infantry from main detachment, who
arrived breathless after a race of three miles. Seizing elevations on
the East and South-east the infantry opened fire, and drove back the
Cossacks, who fell back upon Charenkwan.
This little victory secured for the Japanese a fresh landing place.
Roads, however, must be made before howitzers and carts could be
moved inland. This was a work of tremendous difficulty, for the whole
country-side was a fathomless bog. Yet the engineers of the Second
Division were equal to the task, despite the fact that for twenty
days they had been making every foot of the road along which the
division marched from Chinampo. From Richao, where the howitzers were
put on shore, to the main road at Charenkwan is a distance of fifteen
miles--fifteen miles of rice fields and morass. Pine trees were cut
from the hills and sunk in the mire until a foundation could be secured
for branches and brush wood, which in turn were covered with earth. In
nine days a path was made from the sea, and the pioneers of the Second
Division had the satisfaction of knowing that if heavy artillery failed
the Japanese as it did in the Chinese War it would not be for the same
reason.
Chapter VII
EN ROUTE FOR THE FRONT.
In Japan you must take the advice of St. Paul and follow after
patience. No country teaches the lesson so thoroughly. In Tokyo the
patience of hope gave place to the patience of despair, yet we had
promise of recompense. Captain Tanaka, the genial and inscrutable
aide-de-camp of General Kodama, wrote to me these words: “The men of
great patience will, I think, be crowned with an invaluable reward
and unfathomable blessing by Heaven!” I was beginning to doubt if I
should live long enough to wear that crown when the order came to
march. Whither we were not told and did not stop to inquire, for
Japanese generals, like soldiers of other countries, love to clothe in
mystery their most obvious movements and prefer always to “drink tea by
strategy.” It was enough that we were to proceed to Chemulpo and there
await further commands.
From Chemulpo we were ordered at once to Chianampo in the transport
Suminoye Maru. At dawn on April 10th we approached the mouth of the
Salee river and saw before us a glorious panorama of sea and shore.
Gleaming like a sheet of steel the channel stretched away in the grey
distance studded with brown bosses of islet and rock, like a huge
buckler slung before the harbour.
On the afternoon of April 12th, I left Chianampo with my interpreter,
Mr. Ito, and proceeded to Pyng-yang where orders awaited us. Weather
and hard usage had wiped out every trace of a track, and when my
restive Chinese pony was not wallowing in mire he was doing a tight
rope performance on a few inches of crumbling earth over the slimy
depths of a paddy field. After many hours we came to Ayshin, a squalid
hamlet of wattle walls in which lived and died the famous Chinese
classic Kwantaishi, whose essays are known to every scholar in the East.
Yongan was my resting place for the night. Here I was received by the
pay-master of a regiment of the Guards--a banker and former member of
the Japanese Parliament, who had quartered himself in the gaol, which
was certainly cleaner than any house in the village. Next morning
my host presented me with two sticks used for punishing criminals.
They are of hard wood about an inch square, inscribed with Chinese
characters denoting the number of strokes under which the unhappy
offender often dies. I resumed my journey under dismal conditions, for
rain had fallen in the night and a dense fog overhung the castle on
the hill in which Kato and the early Japanese invaders of Korea were
besieged and reduced to such straits that they ate the mud walls.
[Illustration: In comfortable Quarters.]
[Illustration: My Interpreter and Staff.]
For ten miles I waded through a quagmire, and my horse was mired to
the girths. Rain was still falling when I entered Kang-sye, a foul
village reeking with ages of filth. Our meal of rice that evening was
supplemented by two small birds, shot by an intelligent sergeant, who
also presented to me a manuscript copy of the Korean laws, and two
volumes of the history of Korea. Next morning the native Governor
arrived to pay his respects to the colonel in command of the depot.
He was an old man with the white beard of which Koreans are proud.
His top-knot was concealed under a black net of horsehair, over
which was a white hat, shaped like an upturned flower pot on a round
table. This strange head-gear is made of bamboo, split to a fineness
of a silk thread, and is the most distinctive feature in a Korean
scene. Under his loose white robe the Governor wore a sleeveless
waistcoat of purple. His dignity, and not his feebleness, required
the support of two retainers, who held the magistrate under his arms
as he stepped into the colonel’s room and squatted on the matted
floor. He had complaint to make of rice stolen, women frightened,
and shrines desecrated by the stalling of horses. The colonel
explained that offences of this kind were severely punished, but that
misunderstandings must arise owing to the difference in language. He
urged the Governor to encourage the people to return to their homes
as seed time was drawing near, and impressed on him the urgency of
repairing the roads.
From Kang-sye to Pyng-yang the journey was easy. The rain had ceased,
and the road was comparatively hard. Between the coast and the city
is an unbroken succession of mountains and valleys. The slopes of
the hills are cultivated, and the flats are paddy fields. The soil
is fertile, but the cultivation is primitive, and the people are
indolent. Rice, which is the staple food, is grown everywhere in great
quantities, and on every hand are fields of maize, barley and millet.
The Koreans are meat eaters, and breed immense herds of cattle, most
of which had been driven into the mountains in order to keep the
soldiers out of temptation. The ox is the common beast of burden, and
near Ping-yang I saw long lines of them laden with packs. They are
fine animals, much larger than the Japanese oxen, and are hardy and
tractable. We approached the city across a broad plain, which stretches
South-east to a distance of thirty miles. On the North and West are
wooded heights that reach within two or three miles of the walls. Round
the city proper is a wall of irregular shape, from six to seven miles
in circumference. The Eastern wall is thirty feet high, surmounted
by a crenelated parapet, and rises sheer from the bank of the river
Tai-tong, which is two hundred yards broad and twenty feet deep at this
point. On the South is the old city, surrounded by an earth wall, from
ten to fifteen feet high, broken down in many places, and embracing an
area of three miles by two.
Entering through a broad gate guarded by Japanese sentries we traversed
street after street of thatched houses and shops crowded with
soldiers and Koreans, who appeared to be doing a brisk trade in the
common necessities of life. The smells and abominations of the city
are surpassed--in my experience--only by those of Jerusalem. There
is one clean spot, and that is the American Mission, which is doing
excellent work, and reports most favourably on the intelligence of the
youth of the country, their eagerness to learn, and their capacity
for developing domestic virtues. The Koreans are commonly supposed to
have no religion except a complicated system of ancestor worship. This
is an error, for they also worship demons, and are full of strange
superstitions. Walking at night through one of the main streets--which
in the darkness I mistook for a sewer--my attention was arrested by the
tinkling of a bell, accompanied by a droning chant. Mr. Graham Lee, an
American missionary, guided me to a group of natives squatted at the
door of a house. In the middle of the throng sat a blind man tinkling a
tiny brass bell with a shell, and muttering an incantation over a bowl
of rice, some pickles, and three small cups of native spirit. He was
exorcising the devil that had entered a man who lay sick in the house,
and the food and drink were to tempt the evil spirit out of doors. The
duty of exorcist is the special province of the blind, who are the
wizards of the land.
I remained in Pyng-yang no longer than was necessary to secure a permit
to travel North, and to change some Japanese notes for the current
coin. Owing to the issue of nickles, the intrinsic value of which is
only one-eighteenth of their face value--without gold or silver to
redeem them--the number of counterfeit coins is enormous. Spurious
money is imported in large quantities from Japan, and permission to
coin nickles is freely granted to private individuals who can pay for
the privilege of robbing their neighbours. The only medium of exchange
is the half yang, of which twenty make one shilling, so that the bulk
and weight of even a few days’ expenditure are serious considerations
for the traveller. Cash, circular pieces of brass with a square hole,
are also in circulation.
At Syunan--a typical hamlet of mud walls and thatched roofs--I was
assigned to quarters in the house of a wealthy native who owns the
country-side. His abode differed only in size from that of his poorest
neighbour, for a corrupt government and official exactions not merely
destroy incentive to industry and enterprise but create a semblance
of indigence among the well-to-do who wish to retain their property.
Four mud walls and a mud floor, not over clean, gave me shelter, and I
shivered all night in my fur coat, for I travelled with nothing more
than my saddle bags in order that my progress might not be impeded. To
my ration of rice and beef the owner of the house added some ducks’
eggs and an infusion of wheat--the native substitute for tea.
On the way to Anju next day I passed miles of transport. The road was
white with Koreans laden with rice packed in straw for the Japanese
army. The coolie is strong and capable of much endurance. He will
walk--as I afterwards discovered--fifty miles a day for a week or
more; but he is unreliable, improvident, and incorrigibly lazy. He
carries his load on a small wooden frame called a “chikai,” fastened to
the shoulders with straw-padded loops. His ordinary burden is eighty
pounds, and a day’s march is sixty li or twenty miles. The Japanese
hired them of headmen, and paid by distance and load, so that they
secured a cheap and ready transport in a country where wheeled traffic
is almost unknown. They also made use of oxen, donkeys, and ponies.
The Korean pony is very hardy, stands from eleven to thirteen hands,
and can carry from 150 to 200 lbs. thirty miles a day. His feed is a
hot mash, and he is not allowed to drink cold water. His nostrils are
slit to make him long winded, and on the whole he is a very serviceable
little beast, though his morals are those of the poultry yard, and his
vices are legion.
At dusk we were still winding our weary way over mountains, through
passes and across valleys. Anju seemed a myth, but at night we entered
the city and were hospitably received by the Japanese. It is a town of
some importance, and stands on an eminence surrounded by a wall built
for defence against incursions from the North. The streets are narrow
and foul, and the hovels were crowded to overflowing with soldiers on
their way to the front. In the early morning I left Anju, and crossing
a broad river rode over a sandy plain that was at one time the bed
of a torrent. A few miles of broken country brought me to another
water course which, like most of the rivers of Korea, is shallow and
channelless. The Japanese had bridged this river, but in order to avoid
a long diversion I passed over in a ferry boat or lighter. By way of
Kasan I reached Tyon-ju on the 17th of April, having to travel through
very wild country and to walk eighteen miles, dragging behind me a very
weary horse. It was close upon midnight when I presented myself at
the depot, only to find the officer in command too much occupied with
a gift of oxen from the King of Korea to give heed to the “European
gentleman” who came hungry and footsore.
At Syen-chen, where I haltered next night, I had a delightful
welcome from the American Mission, of which Dr. Sharrocks is the
head. Head-quarters of the army were at Sharenkwan--a short day’s
march--and on the 19th of April Mr. McKenzie of the _Daily Mail_
(who had overtaken me at Tyon-ju, where I was detained by a slight
accident through miscalculating the height of a Korean door) and I
were presented to General Fujii, Chief of the Staff. We were just in
time, for head-quarters moved next day to Hiken-min-jori, and on the
following morning to the vicinity of Wiju, where we found the army
preparing to force the passage of the Yalu.
Chapter VIII
THE VALLEY OF THE YALU.
Between China and Korea nature has thrown a barrier of mountain and
river that looks impregnable. Behind this defence the Russians decided
to make their first stand. The Yalu is the longest river in Korea,
and has its source on the Southern slopes of Chang-poi-Chang. Its
upper reaches traverse an almost inaccessible region of forest and
mountain, but from its junction with the Eastern Hun river the valley
is cultivated. From the Manchurian side the Yalu receives several
tributaries that descend from the Ever White Mountains, making it in
spring and autumn a turbulent flood. After a sinuous course of three
hundred and twenty miles like the writhing of a dragon, the Yalu,
swollen by the waters of the Ai-ho, empties itself into the Yellow Sea.
Wiju is situated about two miles South of the main stream of the Yalu,
in the hollow of the hills over which runs a wall of light stone. A
steep ridge separates the city from its port on the river, which is
navigable as far as Tchang-cheng, a noted trading place sixty miles
from the sea. The population of Wiju--“the stronghold of the West”--in
ordinary times is twelve thousand, exclusive of one thousand Korean
soldiers, whose chief business was to scrutinise all persons entering
or leaving the Hermit Kingdom by the Mandarin road which passes through
the city.
Screened by cavalry whose lines stretched from Yongampo, near the mouth
of the Yalu, through Wiju to a point some miles East of Suikochin on
the upper stream, the Japanese infantry pressed forward toward the
scene of their first battle. The Guards marched along the main road and
were the first to enter Wiju. The Second Division came up on the West,
while the Twelfth Division, armed with mountain guns, and composed of
expert hill-fighters, continued to traverse the mountainous country on
the East. On April 21st the concentration was completed.
Almost every foot of the way was made under difficulties. So bad were
the roads that the passage of one field gun rendered it necessary for
the artillery to halt and repair the path for the next gun. Infantry as
well as pioneers were employed in constructing roads from the Peninsula
of Tyolsan. In some places the ground was very rocky, and involved
much labour. Elsewhere morass and paddy field had to be spanned with
timber. There are few districts in Korea that have not been denuded of
forest, and wood is scarce. Fortunately, to the South of Wiju is an
Imperial preserve known as White Horse Hill, the slopes of which gave a
plentiful supply of timber.
[Illustration: General View of the Russian Positions on the
North Bank of the Yalu.
(From a Japanese water colour sketch.)]
When General Kuroki and his Staff arrived at Wiju and surveyed the
valley of the Yalu from the temple on the North of the city they
were filled with foreboding. To cross that network of rivers and
attack an enemy of unknown strength entrenched in the hills beyond
was a hazardous enterprise. At first glance it seemed hopeless. Even
on a clear day field glasses were required to see the white walls of
Chiu-lien-cheng. From the Temple to Conical Hill, North of the village,
where the Russians had their artillery position, was a distance of six
thousand mètres, and between these points were five or six deep and
swift streams that must be bridged.
A study of the river is essential to an understanding of the battle.
Opposite Wiju the Yalu and the Ai-ho flow through a broad delta bounded
on the North by a steep and rugged mountain range that descends West of
Antung into small hills and cultivated flats. The rivers separate into
several streams and form many islands over which are scattered tiny
hamlets. Close to Wiju, between the Yalu and a branch of that river,
lies the island of Kontonto, seamed with deep dongas in which Russian
riflemen were concealed. North of Kontonto, beyond the main stream, is
the island of Wozakto, West of which, between branches of the Yalu and
the Ai-ho, rises Tiger Hill, a bold promontory three thousand mètres
from Wiju. Enclosed by the same branch of the Ai-ho and the main stream
of that river stretches another delta known as Chonchagtai, whereon
the most conspicuous building is a temple surrounded by a red wall.
West of this island flows the main stream of the Ai-ho, which passes
within one thousand mètres from Conical Hill before it approaches
Chiu-lien-cheng. Near to the Korean shore the Yalu and another of its
branches form the island of Nanzato. The South-west of the delta is
opposite Antung, where the river is five hundred mètres wide and is
deep enough to allow small coasting vessels to steam within three or
four miles from the town. At the Northern extremity of the delta lies
the island of Kulito. In considering the tactical possibilities of the
river it is most important to keep in mind the fact that at Kulito the
main stream of the Yalu runs along the Russian side, while near Wiju
it flows along the Japanese side, making a sharp turn almost North and
South and bending again toward the South-west.
Tiger Hill and the heights to the North between the main streams of
the Yalu and the Ai-ho, stand next in tactical importance. Would these
mountains admit of any big movement of troops? The experience of 1894
was of little value, seeing that in the Chinese War only one regiment
crossed these mountains. At that time the Japanese were of opinion that
the heights were useless for offensive purposes, since they were steep
and rugged and had no paths running East and West. Natives declared
that only men and pack ponies could traverse them, and that at one or
two places alone could roads be made with extreme labour owing to the
hardness of the rock. These difficulties, so far from deterring General
Kuroki, were a strong incentive. If these mountains were inaccessible
then they were the very quarter from which to surprise the enemy and
turn his flank.
How and at what points should the river be crossed? The solution of
these problems depended on several factors that could be ascertained
only by careful and extensive reconnaisances. In the Autumn of 1894,
when the Japanese invaded Manchuria, the water was low and there was
a ford near Suikochin. Now that the ice was melting in the mountains
the river was deep. There was no ford and the Russians had taken away
all the native boats. Seventy boats had been brought from Japan in the
hope that they might be of service, but it was impossible to bring them
up the river under the guns and rifles of the enemy. Many soldiers
volunteered to swim the rivers, to cross on rafts and on inflated
bladders. But General Kuroki would listen to none of these wild
schemes, deeming them too hazardous before an enemy whose strength and
purpose were unknown.
Before the rivers could be bridged it was necessary to make sure that
the water was not rising, for there was always the danger that while
the ice on the lower stream melted, the upper stream would remain
frozen and that ice floes would descend and sweep away the bridges.
Cavalry were accordingly employed to place hydrometers in various
places and to note the rise or fall of the river. As the waters of the
Yalu rose or fell so rose or fell the hopes of General Kuroki and his
staff.
To reconnoitre the valley for battle was very difficult. All the rivers
were wider, deeper and swifter than was expected. The main stream was
four hundred and fifty mètres wide, and the smaller not less than one
hundred mètres in width.
Koreans reported vaguely that near the enemy’s main position the Ai-ho
was fordable in two or three places where the water rose no higher
than a man’s chest. A shower of rain or the melting of ice on the
upper stream would drown these fords. Moreover, the lives of men and
the issues of war could not be committed to native rumours. Careful
investigation must be made. But the Ai-ho flowed only one thousand
mètres in front of the Russian position and two thousand mètres behind
their outposts. Reconnaissance was therefore impracticable as long as
the enemy remained in possession of the islands, of Tiger Hill and of
the hills to the North. Cossacks also patrolled the country from Tiger
Hill to Antung and Westward beyond the mouth of the Yalu as far as
Takushan.
General Kuroki was of opinion that no fewer than twelve bridges were
needed. Before their construction could be attempted every stream
must be carefully examined for places where the water was shallowest,
the river bed suitable for driving piles, and the distance between
the banks shortest. It was essential that the Russians should be
kept as long as possible in ignorance of the points at which the
Japanese purposed bridging, for every yard of the valley was visible
from their position and they had marked the ranges. To make many
reconnaissances in any quarter would be to betray the probable position
of a bridge and to offer it for a target to the enemy’s artillery.
[Illustration: Japanese Infantry fording the Yalu.]
To transport men was difficult enough, but to pass heavy guns across
the river in face of the enemy seemed impossible. Yet it must be done.
The hills North and East of Chiu-lien-cheng were beyond the range of
Japanese guns South of the main stream. Unless both field and heavy
artillery could be carried across the Yalu they could not be used with
effect. It was hazardous to carry guns over a deep river four hundred
and fifty mètres wide under fire from the enemy. Even in the night the
attempt might be frustrated, since the range at every point was known
to the Russians.
Chapter IX
BRIDGING THE YALU.
It is always an interesting and instructive spectacle to behold the
inventive genius of man engaged in a struggle with mighty forces, and
to observe courage, skill and endurance overcome obstacles that seem
insurmountable. The situation in which the Japanese found themselves on
the banks of the Yalu called for the exercise of all these qualities in
a supreme degree. How they made a passage over this net work of rivers
in face of an enemy entrenched in the heights and within range of
artillery will be memorable in the history of war.
The work of reconnaissance was undertaken by officers and men, some
of whom swam the rivers and brought back reports as to the places
suitable for bridging, the exact locality of fords and their depth,
the positions available for artillery, and the nature and strength
of the forces on the islands and in the hills to the north of Tiger
Hill. Many of these brave men lost their lives, but they did not die
in vain. The engineers, who had worked without rest for thirty-eight
days, and had worn their spades and axes down in the wood, displayed
daring and energy that seemed to be inexhaustible. The sappers of the
Second Division, who, since their landing in Korea, had constructed
one hundred and fifty miles of road, discovered two or three old
canoes which the Russians had broken up and left as useless. These
they repaired, and with them navigated the river at night in search of
places that might be bridged for heavy guns and field guns.
The howitzers, whose presence was unknown to the Russians, were to be
taken across the branch stream to the island of Kontonto. A suitable
place was found about two thousand mètres West of Wiju, where the
stream was only seven mètres wide, and the bank on each side was
high enough to screen the pioneers. In this work none of the regular
bridging material of the army was to be used, and pontoons had to be
made from material collected five miles away. Six boats and several
rafts were built, and were supplemented by a few old boats that were
water-logged in the river. On the night of April 27th the bridging
of the stream was begun, and at five o’clock next morning it was
completed. Next day while some repairs were in progress the Russians
opened fire on the pontoons, but did no damage, and on the night of the
29th the heavy artillery passed safely over to Kontonto island, where
they were cleverly concealed in empalments screened with trees and
brushwood.
For the field guns a second bridge was built at a point two hundred
and eighty mètres West of Wiju, also from material gathered in the
neighbourhood. Here, in some parts, the stream was two mètres deep
and icy cold. The work was begun on the night of April 25th, and at
four o’clock next morning seven men were so benumbed that they had to
be rescued from drowning. In three hours they recovered and resumed
their labours. On the morning of the 26th the Russians discovered the
bridge, and bombarded it for three hours from Tiger Hill. No harm was
done until nine o’clock, when the batteries on Conical Hill opened
fire, and one shell struck the bridge, wounding an engineer. Despite
the cannonade the work went on without interruption until an order
came from head-quarters to stop during the day time. Anxious that the
enemy should not think that his men feared shell fire, the officer in
command told the sappers to withdraw slowly one by one. After this the
material was prepared during the day behind the hills, and the work
of construction was resumed under cover of darkness. The bridge was
finished by the morning of the 27th, and on the night of the 29th the
field guns were transferred to Kontonto island.
Next morning it was decided that these guns must be carried over the
main stream of the Yalu. Bridging was impossible, for the river was
four hundred and fifty mètres wide, and within three thousand mètres
of the Russian position. The order was given at nine o’clock, and
eight hours afterward twenty-one pontoons were collected on the river
North of Wiju where they could not be seen by the enemy. As soon as
it was dark this fleet of pontoons dropped silently down the stream,
keeping intervals of fifty mètres in case the Russians opened fire.
At seven o’clock they were in front of the island Chonchagtai, and
one officer and one private landed in order to find a suitable place
for disembarking the guns. Three stages were erected on each side of
the river, and at half-past nine o’clock the infantry guard of the
guns began to cross the broad and swift stream. Each pontoon carried
thirty-two men, and the boats took from fifteen to seventeen minutes
in making the journey. A hasty reconnaissance showed that the island
of Chonchagtai had been abandoned by the enemy, and the guns were
ferried over in the pontoons. At three o’clock the work was completed
without accident, and before dawn pontoons, tools, and material had
vanished. Seven hours later some pontoons again crossed the river with
ammunition for the guns and were fired upon. Two pontoons were struck
by fragments of the same shell, and appeared to be sinking under a
cloud of smoke, out of which rang triumphant shouts of “Banzai!” Help
was sent instantly, and the boats were brought safely to shore. One of
the pontoons had nine holes in it, and one of the planks was smashed
to pieces; the other had seven holes--all, fortunately, above the
water line. Two of the rowers were wounded, one severely and the other
slightly. Neither left the oars for a second, though both fainted as
soon as they were carried ashore.
Another bridge was ordered to be thrown across the main stream in
front of Tiger Hill, where the water was very deep, the river bed too
hard for piles and the current so swift that two or three anchors
were required for each boat. Neither nails nor anchors were in store
and the pontoons had to be made from material collected about two
thousand mètres further up stream. An ingenious officer ordered his men
to search the Korean houses for ploughshares, horse-shoes, sickles,
hatchets, and any metal tools. The ploughshares were turned into
anchors and the rest into nails. The work began on the night of April
28th, and by noon on the 30th seventy-five pontoons were ready to span
the river, which at that point was three hundred and thirty mètres
wide. West of Tiger Hill the branch of the Ai-ho is very deep, and here
another bridge was made, two companies of infantry having been sent to
drive the enemy from Tiger Hill and to select positions for a battery
of field guns.
It was of vital importance that the enemy should not discover the
point at which the Twelfth Division, which was to make the flanking
movement, would cross the Yalu. Suikochin, to the North-east of Wiju,
was the place selected, and was bridged with the greatest secrecy and
in the shortest possible time. Material was collected higher up the
river and floated down stream in the darkness. As the road from Wiju to
Suikochin was visible to the enemy the utmost care and vigilance had to
be exercised, and the bridges had to be put together under cover of the
hills.
Before the battle began ten bridges were constructed. Their united
length was 2,126 mètres; half of them were made from material found in
the neighbourhood; the other half were the regular pontoons of the army.
The positions of the bridges are shown on the accompanying map.
These elaborate preparations were made with remarkable speed and
secrecy. The terrain was on the whole favourable. The low hills about
Wiju concealed the movement of troops and the work of engineers.
Every part of the road under the enemy’s observation was screened by
artificial avenues of firs and arches of maize straw which, from a
distance, looked like natural growth, so that neither battalions nor
batteries could be seen and counted as they descended the higher ground
towards Wiju.
It must not be imagined, however, that these plans altogether escaped
the vigilance of the Russians or were effected without opposition.
Chapter X
PREPARING FOR BATTLE.
To associate violence and death with the valley of the Yalu seemed a
sacrilege, so tranquil it looked and so beautiful. The sun lighted
up the dark ridges and gilded the tawny sand through which flowed
rivers that separated the broad plain into islands. Away to the East
lay a wild forest country given over to hunters. Westward, as the
estuary opened its arms to the embrace of the sea, rose the smoke of
a city in the shadow of receding hills. Between city and forest were
scattered hamlets and homesteads that sheltered a race of white-robed
peasants. A strange stillness brooded over the valley: the air was
charged with mystery: and mountain and river were heavy with portent.
The great heart of nature had ceased to beat and life in the delta was
suspended. With furled sails the junks rested in the yellow creeks: no
oxen wandered in the fields or bemoaned their burden of rice straw: no
husbandman made ready for seed time. The whole scene looked and felt
like painted canvas.
[Illustration: JAPANESE PONTOONS
BATTLE OF YALU
DRAWN BY A JAPANESE OFFICER]
This was the valley of the Yalu, which from its source to the sea
forms the frontier between Korea and Manchuria. The black specks that
crawled like insects over ridge and flat were men awaiting the word
of command that was to make these silent hills resound with the
thunders of battle. Our horses picked their way through the squalid
streets and halted at the head-quarters of the Guards. A wooden gate,
shaped like a temple, told us in Chinese characters that this was
Wiju--“The Stronghold of the West.” Through the walls of the city have
poured again and again the invading armies of China, for Wiju is the
ford of the Yalu, and along the track that resumes its march among the
mountains has been borne for centuries the tribute paid by the Emperor
of Korea to his suzerain in Pekin. Most of the inhabitants had fled and
the mean lanes of thatched hovels had a depressing aspect.
Passing through the North Gate we came to a steep hill crowned with a
temple--Toguntai, or “The place from which to command an Army”--and saw
far below us a splendid panorama of mountain and river. In bands of
green and gold the delta meandered seaward among streams of dark blue
and tawny brown. Rugged heights, seamed with deep gorges, reached down
to the Northern shore. Against the blue sky beyond, range after range
of hills purpled in the distance. The slopes were scored with passes
through which rode Russian horsemen. Westward the mountains recede and
are less precipitous, leaving ample space for the group of houses known
as Chiu-lien-cheng, which is not a walled town as the name implies.
Near slate-roofed barracks stood a few Cossacks: others rode slowly
down towards the river Ai that flows within two thousand mètres of
the hamlet. On the hills above Chiu-lien-cheng could be traced earth
works and trenches that commanded the highway along which an army from
the South must pass. Seaward, in the shadow of low receding hills,
lay the Manchurian town of Antung with a population of 150,000 and a
considerable trade in nankeens, oil, iron, and timber, as the junks in
the creek testified.
This was the Russian position on the North bank of the estuary of the
Yalu. In physical aspect it bore a strong resemblance to the position
that confronted General Buller on the Tugela. There was the plain
of the delta with the unfordable river beyond, and behind that were
the rugged heights in which the Russians were entrenched. Their left
flank rested on mountains that appeared inaccessible to large bodies
of troops and unsuited to any operations other than those of guerilla
warfare; their right wing was covered by a broad deep river, while
their front must be approached over a network of streams and flat
country. According to the rules of war the position was impregnable.
The only vulnerable point seemed to be on the right, where the Yalu is
navigable by ships of shallow draft, and a cultivated plain stretches
to the foot of receding hills that diminish in height as they draw
nearer to the mouth of the estuary.
On Friday, April 22nd, the Russians made their first effort to discover
the strength of their adversaries and to ascertain at what point an
attempt would be made to force the passage of the river. Four junks
manned by infantry crossed over from the West of Antung. They were
driven back by rifle fire and returned to the Manchurian side under
cover of guns on a hill to the North-west of Antung. About the same
time a thousand Cossacks were despatched to feel for the Japanese
right flank. Fording the Yalu at Piek-tung, they disarmed some Korean
soldiers and left three hundred troopers to occupy the place until
the 28th, when they fell back across the river to Tcho-san before the
advance of a Japanese battalion.
The Japanese completed their preparations on April 24th; their pontoons
were ready and in their appointed places; their troops were massed in
Wiju and behind the hills to the South; their gun positions had been
well chosen to cover pioneers and landing parties and were artfully
masked. But before the streams could be bridged the enemy must be
driven from the islands of Kulito and Chonchagtai as well as from Tiger
Hill. On the evening of the 25th, two gunboats, two torpedo boats, and
two armed launches entered Yongampo and made a demonstration in the
direction of Antung with the object of deceiving the enemy as to the
direction of the real attack.
At half-past three o’clock on the morning of the 26th, our camp, two
miles South of Wiju, was roused by Captain Okada with a message from
Head Quarters. We were to witness the operation of driving the Russian
outposts from the islands. At eight o’clock the sound of rifle fire on
the East told that the landing had begun and that the enemy had not
been taken by surprise. Several boats manned by infantry and sappers
put off from Kontonto across the main stream. They met with but feeble
resistance and after a few casualties secured a footing on the island.
The Russian infantry from the cover of Tiger Hill kept up a show of
opposition while some Cossacks were sent to reinforce, but came too
late. Their retirement was covered by a Hotchkiss gun on Tiger Hill
which afterwards opened fire on Wiju, burning two houses and killing
several natives. The Japanese guns remained silent and refused to
disclose their position. Next day the enemy’s cannonade was resumed,
being directed mainly against the bridge in course of construction West
of the town.
On the 28th, two companies of Guards crossed the branch of the Yalu to
Tiger Hill and drove the Russians from the promontory. At 4 p.m. on
the following day a Russian battalion, with four guns, attacked the
position and compelled the Guards to retire to Kulito, leaving the
enemy again in possession of Tiger Hill. This temporary occupation of
Tiger Hill caused the Russians to abandon Chonchagtai on the 28th. They
accordingly set fire to the buildings, sparing only the temple, and for
several hours smoke and flame stretching for nearly a mile across the
island masked the movements of the enemy.
Meanwhile preparations were made for the flanking movement. The mixed
brigade, which had marched from Anju through Yusan to Shojo, collected
material for bridging, and floated it down the river to Suikochin,
thirteen miles North-east of Wiju, where the Twelfth Division were to
cross. At first it was proposed to despatch a force from Shojo to the
other side of the river with the object of drawing the Russians in that
direction and relieving the pressure on the Japanese front. But lack
of bridging material and ignorance of the conditions North of the Yalu
over-ruled this project as dangerous. The mixed brigade accordingly
retired on April 29th, and rejoined the Twelfth Division at Suikochin,
leaving only a few men to guard against surprise on the extremity
of the right flank. There was, however, little fear that the enemy
would attempt to cross at Shojo, where they would find themselves in
mountainous country, and have difficulty in obtaining supplies.
The general plan of attack was made known in an army order issued at
ten o’clock on the morning of April 28th. Some changes were afterwards
made, but they did not materially affect the scheme.
The Twelfth Division were to cross the Yalu at Suikochin on the night
of the 29th, and by the evening of the 30th were to hold the line from
Tiger Hill to Litsuyen. On the following day they were to advance
to Santowan. The duty of this Division was to cover the crossing of
the main army. If possible, General Inouye was to send a detachment
to Altaokau to threaten the left wing and rear of the enemy who were
entrenched at Makau and Yushukau on the north bank of the Ai-ho.
The Second Division, which formed the left flank, were to assemble at
Shasanton, South-east of Wiju, at ten o’clock on the morning of the
30th, and to march at midnight to Wonfuaton, where four bridges spanned
two branch streams of the Yalu. From the island of Kulito they were
to pass by way of Tiger Hill to a position in front of the Ai-ho. The
Second Regiment of artillery (Second Division) were to be stationed on
the left bank of the main stream at Chonchagtai, and were to be ready
to open fire at daybreak on the 30th.
The Guards Division, having fewer difficulties to overcome, were to
follow the same route as the Second Division on the night of the 30th,
and to take up a position between the Twelfth and Second Divisions.
The howitzer regiment was to occupy a position on Kontonto island on
the 29th. One reserve battalion was posted near the howitzers to guard
them and the field guns.
The reserve, which consisted of four infantry battalions and five
squadrons of cavalry, were to muster at four o’clock on the morning of
May 1st on the island of Kulito.
Chapter XI
THE FIRST ENCOUNTER.
The moment was drawing near when the armies would meet and the vaunted
might of Russia would be put to the test. How would it fare with the
Japanese? Victorious at sea, would they be conquerors on land? The
people of Great Britain and the United States were divided between
amazement at the presumption and admiration of the daring of the
“little Japs.” Those who measure the strength of armies by statistics
of area and population, and by quotations from the Stock Exchange, had
no doubt that the bigger country would win. Military men, satisfied by
parades, manœuvres, and official reports, were convinced that Russia
would vindicate the laws of military science and crush her rival.
Politicians hoped for the best and feared the worst. One member of the
British Government discovered a new ground for faith. He was “sure the
Japanese would win, because every military man said they could not!”
As for the Japanese soldiers, never for a moment did they dream that
they could be beaten by “a corrupt, immoral, and illiterate people like
the Russians.” The worst they anticipated was a heavy casualty list.
General Fujii, mindful of the Russo-Turkish war, ordered the Medical
Staff to prepare for five thousand wounded.
The Russians had plenty of time to make their dispositions. For several
weeks they had held the north bank of the Ai-ho with twenty thousand
infantry and Cossacks and forty-eight guns. In contesting the passage
of a river it is obviously necessary to keep a large reserve with which
to strike the enemy when he attempts to cross. But in a country devoid
of lateral communications--like that occupied by the Russians--this
precaution could be adopted only on one condition: that the point of
attack was known. To concentrate at Antung, if the Japanese crossed
at Suikochin or at Fushan, would be fatal. The plan of defence must
be well conceived from the beginning or it was destined to fail. Now
the Russian General could not learn the direction of the attack. The
movements of the Japanese puzzled him, as it was intended that they
should. Some of the younger officers believed that the crossing would
be effected on the upper reaches of the Yalu near Suikochin, and urged
that the left flank should be strengthened. This theory met with no
support among the senior officers, who thought that no serious movement
could be made in such difficult country. Others maintained that the
Japanese would bridge the river between Wiju and Chiu-lien-cheng, and
would follow the Imperial Pekin road. But the weight of authority was
in favour of Antung, where it was comparatively easy to bridge the
Yalu. In that belief General Zasselitch was confirmed by the naval
demonstrations that took place in front of Antung, and he accordingly
posted his reserves near that place.
On the last day of April the Russian front extended along the North
bank of the river Ai for a distance of nearly eighteen miles. Their
right flank was at Antung, their centre at Chiu-lien-cheng, and their
left wing rested on the mountains near Wezukau. One regiment was
stationed at Antung, on the hill to the North of which was a battery
of eight guns; a regiment and a half, with two field batteries,
held Chiu-lien-cheng; at Yushukau was another regiment with one
battery; to the North of Wezukau were two companies of infantry and
one field battery, and in the heights about Hamatan, to the West
of Chiu-lien-cheng, where the road from Antung branches West to
Feng-hoang-cheng, were posted two regiments in reserve, with one
battery. Both flanks were protected by cavalry, General Mistchenko
being at Tajushan, some miles to the West of Antung, where it was
anticipated that the Japanese would attempt to land a small force. The
hills were entrenched at several points; trenches commanded the river
bank; upon summit and ridge were gun emplacements and sungars. These
works were constructed by the infantry, aided by Chinese, the engineers
being occupied with the roads and bridges on the line of communication
which passed through Feng-hoang-cheng to Liao-yang. No attempt had been
made to mask the trenches, which were of the most primitive design, and
gave neither head cover nor protection against shell fire.
The Japanese lay in the hills about Wiju on the South bank of the
Yalu--an army of three Divisions of forty-five thousand men, with
twelve batteries of field guns, six mountain batteries, and two
sections of five-inch howitzers. Their line extended from Suikochin to
the South-west of Wiju. Between the two armies was the valley of the
Yalu--a plain of sand and bush, intersected by rivers.
The position of the Russian flank and the nature of the terrain between
the Yalu and the Ai called for a movement which in face of an energetic
and well-informed enemy might have proved disastrous. A glance at the
map will show that if the attack on the Russian front and flank was to
be simultaneous the Twelfth Division must advance twenty-four hours
before the Divisions at the centre and on the left. To arrive in front
of the Russian position on the Ai-ho and to cover the crossing of the
other divisions the Twelfth had to traverse the mountainous country
between Suikochin and Litzuyen. General Kuroki determined to take the
risk of dividing his command by sending one division in advance across
the river. In order to divert attention from this movement the gunboat
Maya and two torpedo boats renewed their demonstration near Antung on
the morning of the 29th and bombarded the enemy’s position North of the
Yalu. At eleven o’clock forty or fifty Cossacks with two guns appeared
in front of Suikochin but were compelled to seek refuge in the hills.
The enemy’s outpost having been driven in, a covering party of one
battalion was ferried over under fire from the Russian guns.
The battery North of Wiju replied, and by two o’clock the battalion
occupied a position that gave security to the engineers, who
immediately began to bridge the river. This, as we have seen, was a
difficult task, the current being swift (1.80 mètres per second), the
water eight mètres deep and two or three anchors being required for
each pontoon. The bridge was completed by three o’clock on the morning
of the 30th, and the Twelfth Division crossed to the North bank of the
Yalu.
The night of the 29th of April was one of great anxiety to General
Kuroki and his staff. The army was divided by a deep river, and one
division, upon whose safety depended the success or failure of the
plan of attack, was executing the hazardous operation of deploying at
right angles to its line of march within easy range of the enemy’s
guns. At any moment the Russians might seize the occasion to deliver a
counter attack. General Kuroki had, however, the consolation of knowing
that in such difficult country it would take time to develop such an
attack, and that the Twelfth Division might be depended upon to hold
the line. Meanwhile, every precaution was taken to prevent surprise.
Three batteries and a regiment of infantry were posted on Kontonto
island; the guns North of Wiju were trained on the point of danger, and
two divisions concentrated at Wiju were ready to march at a moment’s
notice.
Chapter XII
THE PASSAGE OF THE YALU.
The night passed without alarm, and on the morning of April 30th the
guns on the heights above Chiu-lien-cheng began to speak once more.
Soon after dawn the Russian General discovered that his left flank was
in danger, and withdrew it to a position North of the Ai-ho.
Up to this moment General Kuroki was undecided as to the wisdom of
disclosing his gun positions. It was a question with the staff whether
the bombardment should begin on the 30th day of April or should be
reserved for the day of assault. If the artillery opened on the 30th
its position North of the main stream of the Yalu would be known to the
Russians, who would retire their own guns further into the mountains.
After anxious consideration it was determined that the Japanese
artillery should remain silent as long as no fire was opened upon the
pontoon bridges. In the event of any attempt to destroy the bridges
the guns were ordered to reply. Precisely at eleven o’clock, when the
sun was at their back and the light was in favour of the Japanese, the
Russian guns were directed on the pontoons.
There was no longer need for concealment. The Japanese unmasked their
batteries near Wiju and on the island of Kontonto. For two hours the
duel raged with increasing violence. At first the Russian guns were
turned upon some infantry scouts and against the pontoons, but they
speedily abandoned these targets and strove to silence the batteries.
The gunners on a conical hill, East of Chiu-lien-cheng, were especially
active and were distinctly visible against the sky line. Upon this hill
the Japanese presently opened a severe and concentrated cannonade with
field gun and howitzer. Shell after shell crowned the summit with smoke
and flame. Surely nothing could live in that inferno, yet the Russians
stood to their guns and answered shell with shell. But so deadly was
the fire that courage gave place to discretion, and three dark objects
appeared on the slope making their way toward the road that wound into
the valley beyond.
They were guns and their teams. How slowly they moved through the smoke
and flame, as shrapnel rained upon them and common shell rent the earth
about them like some mighty convulsion of nature. Not a yard did they
cover but the iron leapt upon them with the force of a hurricane. Now
a horse rolled over; now a man stumbled forward to rise no more. Still
the storm swept over them--one second a blue smoke in the air that
told of shrapnel, and the next a geyser of brown earth that marked the
explosion of common shell. The scene caught one by the throat and held
the breath. It lasted little more than half an hour, but it seemed an
age of agony. Life had departed from the dark objects; they lay on the
hillside motionless--the dead gunners and their guns.
Meanwhile along the foot of the mountains across the river wound a
thin black line like a mamba uncoiling its length out of a ravine. The
sight of it called to my memory the dark cataract that flowed from
the heights beyond Lombards Kop to engulf the men at Nicholson’s Nek.
This was the Japanese infantry on the right who had made good their
footing and were swarming up the precipitous slopes to storm the left
wing of the Russian army, and to perform a feat of arms more daring
and successful than that which gave General de Wet his first victory
in Natal. Upward and onward they went--now vanishing in some dark
depression; now visible against the bare rock, until at last they began
to fall over the crest like a mountain torrent that swept down to the
banks of the river Ai. The Russians could not have been ignorant of
this incursion, but for a long time they gave no sign. Presently three
or four mounted men came down from the low hills North-east of Tiger
Hill and halted under cover of the houses near the river. Their mission
was quickly apparent. The buildings burst into flame and the Cossacks
rode off into the smoke, followed by shrapnel from the battery East of
Wiju.
The night of the 30th was one of crowded yet silent activity on the
South bank of the Yalu and the island of Kontonto. Two Divisions--the
Guards and the Second--had still to cross and pontoons had to be
placed. At ten o’clock all was ready and men and guns passed over.
The speed and silence with which these movements were effected was
remarkable. Every man knew his part and his place: there was no noise
or confusion: the approaches to the river were screened and the men
reached them from behind sheltering hills: the pontoons were padded
with straw and matting. Meanwhile two important problems had been
solved by a few gallant officers--whether the field guns on Kontonto
island could be moved to Temple island, and whether the river Ai must
be bridged or could be forded. In the event of disaster the guns must
inevitably be lost, as there was no means of retreat across the river
and the only way to reach Temple island was by pontoon ferries. Late
in the night the batteries were ferried over to Temple island. For
men to cross the Ai under rifle fire seemed a hopeless task, and many
suggestions were made and discussed. One proposal was that the men
should carry floats of wood or small tubs: another that a picked body
of swimmers prepared to die should cross the river with leading ropes
for their comrades.
Happily neither of these adventurous schemes proved necessary. A ford
was found; the water came up to the neck and was under rifle fire, yet
that sufficed for the Japanese. On the night of the 30th the Twelfth
Division occupied a position with its right on Sandoan and its front
toward the river Ai at Ishiko: the Guards Division was north of Tiger
Hill on the South bank of the Ai: and the Second Division formed on
the South-west of Temple island. Small wonder if the Russians were
surprised by the rapidity of this manœuvre. According to the story told
by prisoners, they believed that at least a week would be required by
the Japanese to complete their crossing to Temple island, and they did
not credit the report that they had with them heavy guns.
It was on the morning of the 1st of May that the Japanese won their
great victory on the Yalu. A strange stillness haunted hill and dale as
we rode from camp to the scene of the final struggle. The path across
the cultivated plain was deserted: the sentries had left the bridge
unguarded, and only deep ruts and hoof-prints told that an army had
passed. Wiju was a city of the dead.
We entered through the stone arch which was a gate in the olden time,
and the tramp of our horses’ hoofs echoed along the silent streets of
mean houses. Taking our appointed places near the tower overlooking the
river, we awaited the attack. The sun rose upon a scene that banished
all thought of war. At our feet flowed the rivers that form the delta.
The central and main stream of the Yalu has the deep blue of the
_lapis lazuli_, and shone like a girdle between the yellow sand
and the dark green bush.
Away beyond the river plain rose the bare and silent hills, in the
shadow of which slumbered the village of Chiu-lien-cheng with its
tiled houses and walls of light stone. Only when you looked very
closely could you discover signs of the impending conflict. Among the
shrub near the island lurked dark forms denoting men and howitzers;
behind the charred ruins of houses on Temple island lay more dark
figures; they filled the dongas, the trenches and the broken ground.
The stillness was uncanny and the question rose to every lip: “Have
the Russians fled?” The moments crept on and still our eyes and ears
sought some sign of the presence of the enemy. A few scouts were sent
forward and were not fired upon. Was it the design of the enemy to draw
the Japanese across the river and fall upon them unexpectant? If that
was their hope it was destined to fall. At last the silence was broken
by field gun and howitzer, but it was from the Japanese side. The
batteries posted under Tiger Hill and the howitzers on the South island
sent their shells screaming through the air to the heights beyond the
river. Shot after shot was fired, yet drew forth no response save the
echo of their reverberation among the mountains. Surely the enemy had
retired, and the order to advance would be given. But the Japanese were
not lured into recklessness. The bombardment went on systematically.
The foothills in front of the Russian position have many spurs and
ravines. To the slopes East of Chiu-lien-cheng was turned the fire of
thirty-six guns from Tiger Hill while the howitzers bombarded the
heights above the position. Every nook and cranny was searched again
and again; the slopes obverse and reverse were rent with common shell
and rained upon with shrapnel; and the crests spurted flame and smoke.
To anyone without experience of shell-fire and its effects it must
have seemed that nothing could live in such a hell. For more than an
hour--from half-past five until nearly seven o’clock--the hills were
ransacked for sign of the enemy, but not a sound came back.
The order for the general attack was given and from the plain rose the
small sturdy figures of the Japanese infantry. Their dark blue uniform
showed up against the sand and bush. What targets they were for gun and
rifle! Surely the Russians must sleep or have gone upon a journey! The
line extended Eastward from beyond Chiu-lien-cheng, nearly ten miles,
with a front of six miles, and the right flank--four miles long--thrown
forward. You saw the skirmishers advancing steadily in open order and
behind them the fighting line with the reserves well under cover in the
rear. Near to the left flank a little to the East of Conical Hill the
troops were in echelon column of company and began to deploy only as
they approached rifle range. On the left the formation was much closer
than experience in South Africa would have led us to adopt, but the
Japanese had no faith in what it pleased them to call “Boer tactics.”
Still the mountains in front are silent, though the sound of artillery
and rifle fire came feebly back from the extreme right, where the
enemy was apparently on the defensive. At half-past seven o’clock the
infantry on the left advanced at the double and began to ford the
river. A cheer resounded over river and plain as they dashed into the
stream. The water reached up to their necks. With rifles held high in
the air, the Japanese plunged through the Ai-ho, many of them stripped
to the skin. Then the hills spoke. From the upper ground and foothills
about Chiu-lien-cheng: from the slope and base of Conical Hill: and
from the higher ground came the burr-burr of machine guns and sharp
volley of rifles. Many rolled over in the river and were swept away,
but the line formed on the further bank and went on. Again volleys
flew toward them and machine guns rattled. The effect of this sudden
awakening of the hills was to check the advance and to send the front
line of the Japanese back at the double. They retired in good order,
opening out as they came and taking cover where the nature of the
ground permitted. Many fell, however, and there were significant gaps
in the line when it reached shelter. Once more guns and howitzers came
into action, and the foothills were searched with a destructive fire.
While this artillery preparation was in progress the troops East of
Chiu-lien-cheng extended by the left, and changing front advanced upon
the hills. They met with considerable opposition, but held steadily on
their way.
The spur of the hill East of Chiu-lien-cheng, which guards the ravine
along which the road ascends was held tenaciously. The narrow and
precipitous gorge was entrenched along the base and slopes, and the
crest was crowned with earthworks and empalements. Toward this point
the left, having rallied, advanced once more. Steadily, and in more
extended order, they moved across the plain with their backs to the
river. Officers on horseback directed their movements as calmly as on
parade, and men, now singly, now in groups, dropped into the river and
forded to their comrades. In a few moments the line was moving toward
the spur in the shape of a bow well strung, and a shield of rifles
was cast about the foot of the hill. Here they remained and fought
with the utmost bravery and stubbornness, suffering heavily, as one
could see from the gaps in their formation. Twice the fighting line
was reinforced, and all the time over their heads sang the shells from
the howitzers, rending the earth about the trenches, and covering the
hill sides with clouds of brown dust. Thus the minutes passed, and
the shield drew closer and closer about the spur. But the resistance
was desperate, though unaided by artillery, and it was clear that the
position must be taken in reverse. The left centre was already well
forward, and was rapidly approaching the foot of the ridge from which
stands Conical Hill. The opposition here was feeble, for the enemy
was retiring, and made only one effort to reinforce the trenches in
the pass. Once across the flat, the left centre swarmed up the slope,
a flag marking their progress. Away on the extreme right the Twelfth
Division was pressing home the flanking attack, and the guns on the
high ground north had been silenced by the batteries on Tiger Hill.
[Illustration: A close View of the Yalu.]
The position was taken. On the reverse slope East of Chiu-lien-cheng
the Japanese were now in force. Their flag was climbing higher
and higher up the hill until it waved proudly from the crest, and
thunderous cheers echoed from the walls and towers of Wiju. The left
was still advancing on Chiu-lien-cheng under cover of guns that
searched even crevices in the hills beyond. In a moment more they
reached the line of stone houses, and were moving toward the hills,
while others tending to the East rushed the shoulder of the heights on
the West of the pass. Upon this spur, sheltered from observation by the
peak of the hill they stood in dense mass. Suddenly hurtling through
the air came two shells. A spurt of brown earth sprang from their
midst, and the mass breaking into fragments scattered down the hill.
Sixteen inanimate forms showed where the shells had fallen short. It
was an accident common enough in battle--one of the kind witnessed at
Elandslaagte when our gunners shelled our own advance.
Hard pressed on both flanks, their communications threatened by
the rapidity with which the movement of their left was developing,
there was nothing left for the Russians but to retire. Some, who had
remained in the trenches, fled up the pass. You could see them hurrying
along the brown road, pursued by shrapnel and common shell. The gun
empalement on the summit was wreathed in flame through which men passed
unscathed, and disappeared over the ridge. One man I saw turn back
for a wounded comrade. He did not return. The gorge now swarmed with
dark uniforms, and an officer carrying a flag--white, with the red sun
for centre--mounted the crest, and planted the Japanese ensign on the
Russian earthworks amid shouts of “Banzai.”
Chapter XIII
THE PURSUIT AND THE LESSONS.
Victory was won, yet work was not over. Reserves were called up to
pursue, and guns forded the river in support. Advancing in three
columns the Japanese strove to keep touch with the demoralised foe.
Well forward on the right marched the reserves of the Twelfth Division;
in the centre, on the Pekin road, were the Guards’ reserves, and on
the left, near Antung, were those of the Second Division. On each
flank rode a regiment of cavalry, and lumbering well in the rear came
a field battery. The Russians were retreating toward Feng-hoang-cheng.
Three thousand who had been left at Antung were obliged to retire in a
North-easterly direction as far as Hamatan, where they could reach the
main road. It was the critical position of this detached force that led
to the final disaster. Convinced that the passage of the river would
be attempted near Antung the Russians remained until escape became
difficult. To hold the junction of the roads along which these three
thousand must retire was the duty of the reserves at Hamatan. One
battalion of infantry and two batteries of artillery made a desperate
stand near these heights upon which the Japanese reserves were rapidly
advancing. One company of the Twelfth Division, outstripping their
comrades, seized the high ground in rear of the Russians and cut off
their retreat. And now was waged a combat of heroes. Again and again
the enemy strove to force its passage through the hills. But Captain
Makizawa and his handful of men of the 24th Regiment were resolved to
die rather than allow their enemy to escape. Rifle and gun showered
death upon them, but they held on until the last cartridge was spent,
and only one officer remained alive. Hope was gone, but death remained.
One half of this gallant company had fallen. The remnant fixed bayonets
and prepared to fall in a mad rush upon batteries and battalions. But
help was at hand. The reserves came up in the centre and on the right,
and, without waiting for artillery, charged the position. Led by a
priest with uplifted crucifix some of the Russians made good their
escape. Many of the rearguard fell; the gunners fought to the last, and
then, disabling their guns, raised the white flag. The Japanese fire
ceased, and the surrender was completed.
[Illustration: A Cavalry Regiment crossing the River.]
Twenty-one field guns of the latest pattern and eight machine guns were
among the spoils. One hundred dead Russians attested the gallantry
with which the rearguard had done its duty. Six or seven more guns
were also found in a ravine about four miles from the river where they
had been abandoned when the Russians discovered that their left flank
had been taken in reverse. Eight hundred wounded Russians were
reported to have been carried to Feng-hoang-cheng; the number of slain
was 1,362; and of wounded prisoners 475, making with 138 unwounded
prisoners a casualty list of 1,775. The Japanese losses were remarkably
small considering the nature of the ground and the character of the
attack. Their casualties were returned at 860: five officers and 160
men killed, 29 officers and 666 men wounded. Among the Russians who
died from wounds was General Kastalinsky, who was struck by a shell on
Conical Hill.
The theory has been advanced that the Russians had no intention of
holding the Yalu, and that their purpose was to draw the Japanese into
the mountains of Manchuria. Evidence in support of this theory is hard
to discover. Surely it was not necessary to lose twenty-one field
guns and eight machine guns and to put three thousand men _hors de
combat_ in order to tempt an invading force across a river. There
can, I think, be little doubt that the Russians were confident of their
ability to defend a position of such great natural strength.
The general features of the position reminded me of the Tugela, with
the plain in front, the unfordable river, and the mountains beyond.
According to the testimony of prisoners, the Russians were taken by
surprise by the rapidity and ease with which the Japanese crossed this
network of rivers. Never for a moment did they dream that the passage
would be seriously attempted until four days later. Nor did they
suspect the presence of heavy artillery until the howitzers opened fire
on the 30th of April. There again we have the evidence of prisoners
who declared that they did not credit the report that the Japanese had
brought six-inch howitzers over the roads of Northern Korea.
An assumption of this kind was folly on the part of men who themselves
had carried guns as far South as Anju at a time when the roads were
in a worse condition. Nor could it have escaped their memory that the
Japanese, having command of the sea, were able to land heavy guns
within easy reach of Wiju. The long silence of the Japanese artillery
under severe provocation no doubt tended to confirm the enemy in this
delusion, but on the 30th of April they must have been well aware of
the strength of the artillery South of the Yalu.
The terrible effect of the Japanese fire, both direct and indirect,
may have aided the Russian General to arrive at the determination to
retire his field guns and machine guns, but if that was the reason, why
were they not moved earlier and to a safe distance? Only once in the
action on May 1st was the Russian artillery used, and not more than
half-a-dozen shots were fired before it was silenced. Seeing that the
guns never came into action after the bombardment of the 30th, why were
they not retired into the mountains beyond the possible reach of the
enemy? It is not easy to explain this lack of ordinary precaution on
any other ground than overweening confidence or hopeless confusion and
disorder.
Russian prisoners admitted that six thousand men were defending the
Yalu, and this estimate probably took no account of the three thousand
at Antung and the force on the left of the line. I cannot help thinking
that in the hands of half as many Boers such a position might have
been defended for several days even against so determined and gallant
an enemy as the Japanese. But the Russians displayed little skill in
selecting points of defence, or in constructing earthworks. Their gun
positions were exposed.
The Japanese spoke of the trenches as exceedingly strong. I can only
describe them as primitive and ineffective. The enemy’s weakness in
this respect accounts for the comparatively heavy casualties. A great
proportion of the losses were due to shell fire, against which the
trenches and sungars gave no protection. From the appearance of many
of the slain it was clear that the explosive used in the Japanese
common shell has terrific power. The shells split up into a thousand
fragments, with sharp edges that must have been so many swords hurled
in every direction. In no other shells have I seen so many sharp
pieces: it looked as if the shells not merely broke but laminated. One
conclusion may fairly be drawn from the use that the Japanese made of
common shell--that it is more effective than shrapnel even against
exposed masses of men and guns. The Japanese have learnt this lesson
very thoroughly and make but sparing use of shrapnel, and then only to
supplement the effect of common shell. They have also confirmed our
experience in South Africa that the howitzer is a valuable auxiliary in
the field, and has sufficient mobility so that it need not be tied to
any fixed position.
The fight on the Yalu has been described as a frontal attack with all
its defects. This description appears to me inaccurate. It is true
that the left front was the first to get into close touch with the
enemy on the 1st of May, and that in crossing the Ai-ho it suffered
heavier losses than any other part of the line. But at least twelve
hours before this the flanking movement on the extreme right had
began to develope, and had shaken the confidence of the Russians to
such a degree that they were falling back and had already withdrawn
their guns. The Japanese claim that the trenches on the spur East of
Chiu-lien-cheng were taken by direct assault. From that opinion I take
the liberty to dissent. I was right in front of the position and could
see clearly every movement of the attacking force. It is detracting
nothing from the gallantry of the soldiers who fought so stubbornly
with their backs to the river to say that the position was really taken
in reverse by the left centre. Then only was the attack from the front
pushed home to the point so stoutly defended by the enemy. No praise
can be too great for the Japanese soldiers. On the eve of the battle
they had not slept; they had to march across a great sandy plain and
to ford a river before they could engage the enemy. The victory however
was complete, and was gained at a sacrifice that must be accounted very
small.
[Illustration: A Gun Team in the Water.]
The question naturally arises: Why did not the Russians attempt a
counter attack as soon as the Twelfth Division crossed the river and
was divided from the rest of the army. The Japanese reserves were
at Kurito and the mountainous nature of the country did not favour
rapid concentration toward the East, while the guns could not cover
the extreme right. In 1894 the Chinese descended in great force
from these mountains on the East and inflicted serious loss on the
Japanese. Moreover, there was this in favour of a counter attack--that
the Japanese having crossed the river were compelled to move through
difficult country along a flank at right angles to their original
line of advance. They would consequently have been under very serious
disabilities had they been forced to retire. The Japanese certainly
feared such a counter attack, and made preparations to restore the
balance by holding the Second Division and the reserves in readiness
to drive a wedge into the Russian centre. They had, however, every
confidence in the capacity of the Twelfth Division to hold their own in
the mountains, and that confidence was strengthened by manifest want of
enterprise on the part of the enemy. But the greatest error of all was
the tenacity with which the Russian commander clung to the belief that
the crossing would be attempted in front of Antung. As a consequence
of this conviction the reserves were posted on the right wing at the
back of Antung where they were useless in emergency and it was in
extracting them from this position that the heavy losses in guns and
men were sustained at Hamatan.
Chapter XIV
AFTER THE BATTLE.
The battle was over, and in the courtyard of a Manchurian house sat
victor and vanquished. It was a strange and moving picture, such as
Verestchagin might have painted. In the dark quadrangle flickered
the embers of a wood fire, and around it were seated a prince and a
soldier and his captives. The flame threw into relief the face of the
soldier--a strong, clear-cut face--European rather than Oriental, over
which a smile came readily. Between the firm-set lips glowed the red
end of a cigar, without which General Kuroki is seldom seen. He sat at
his ease, with cap pushed well over his forehead, and slippered feet
crossed. The prince at his side was in full uniform, correct in every
detail from spurs to sabretache, and his dark, immobile features wore
an expression of intense solemnity. In the front of these two on the
other side of the fire were seated three Russian officers--tall blonde
men of Teutonic type, with fierce moustache, and the air of soldiers
who know how to face death. They smoked and drank, and talked like
comrades who had fought side by side and were telling to friendly
ears the story of the passage of the Yalu. One of them--the fiercest
of all--had taken the cigarette from his lips and paused with glass in
hand to speak.
“_Complêtement detruit_,” were the words he said.
Around the circle of illuminated faces stood a group of soldiers in
dark blue uniform. Some had rifles, that showed them to be the guard,
but most of them had the intent look of men gazing at a spectacle that
held thought in suspense. In the background, moving like shadows in
the night, were armed men, whose faces bore the marks of exposure and
fatigue. One little group stood near the low wall of a house examining
the long line of Russian rifles that rested against the building.
The stock of one had the deep dark stain of blood; the bayonet point
of another was bent and broken, and the hands that gripped them that
morning doubtless lay cold and stiff on the hills beyond. Officers came
and went with lighted candles in their hands, leaving the darkness more
intense as they passed hurriedly into houses that hummed like hives
with the sound of voice and footfall.
Into this ever-changing throng came presently two battle-stained
soldiers bearing a wounded man, with another limping by his side. They
laid their groaning burden on the ground, and a figure stirred under
the red blanket. The hand of the wounded soldier rested on his breast
where the shirt was crimson.
“_Meine liebe_,” were the whispered words from white dry lips.
He was thinking of the dear ones at home on the far-away German
frontier, and the tongue of his fireside came back to him. We raised
his head, and put water to his parched and feverish lips, and the
soldier sank back upon his bier muttering the prayer that is the common
heritage of Christendom: “_Unser Vater._” God grant his prayer
passed upward with his soul.
[Illustration: On the Line of Retreat.]
Not a word did the Japanese soldiers understand, but wounds and death
have a tongue that speaks to humanity, if not to men, and that the
Japanese understand as well as any nation in the world. No woman could
have been more gentle than the dark visaged warriors who motioned to
the limping survivor of the fight to rest upon the ground. There he
reclined, like an automoton, smoking the cigarette put into his hand,
and uttering not a sound--the weary and hopeless figure of the soldier
who has fought and lost.
While we looked pitifully on this picture of war the scene around the
fire had changed. The Russian officers had risen and saluted their
captors, and had passed with their armed escort into the darkness.
Another circle had taken their place. Prone upon the ground lay the
body of a man, naked to the waist, and over him bent the surgeon, whose
skilful hand staunched the red blood that welled from a gaping wound in
the breast.
The flickering light fell upon the white skin, and upon the crimson
stain, and upon the drawn face. This is the realism of war--not its
romance--as the heights about the Yalu testified that day.
How I came upon this scene is a story that I tell only because of
certain incidents that illustrate some of the phases of a battle. When
the fight ended, General Kuroki and his staff moved to the Conical
Hill, East of Chiu-lien-cheng, and despatched the reserves in pursuit
of the enemy. They then advanced to the village where Head Quarters
were established for the night. Meanwhile we had returned to our camp,
two miles South of Wiju, and awaited orders. None came, and it was
necessary to find Head Quarters in order to have our messages censored.
Three miles from camp we came to the river, over which an unbroken line
of carts and horses and men was passing. The bridge was flimsy to look
upon, and shook under our horses feet, yet it had served the purpose of
an army, and was now bearing the burden of heavy transport. The stream
of stores and munitions of war rolled onward unceasingly with the dull
roar of the ocean. By devious paths we approached the second affluent
of the Yalu, and crossed over a pontoon bridge under which the current
raced like a mill stream, keeping men busy with ropes and stanchions to
prevent the boats from changing position in the line. Thus we landed on
the second island--a plain of sand and scrub--the extent of which gave
us our first true idea of the front across which the Japanese had to
pass before they approached the hills beyond. Our only guide was the
field wire, which rested now on the branch of a tree, now on a bare
stick with a beer bottle for insulator, and now on the ground. In due
time we came to the main stream of the Yalu, and crossed over to the
Northern delta formed by the Ai-ho, which flows from the Ever White
Mountain and joins the Yalu at Chiu-lien-cheng. The pontoon groaned
under the weight of hurrying transport, as heavily laden carts, pack
animals and coolies in the white dress of Korea hastened in the wake
of the army. In the middle of the plain crouched Tiger Hill, like a
huge beast of prey resting in the desert. From Wiju the hill is the
outline of a tiger with his head to the East and his tail to the West.
The reverse slope has no such shape; it is a range of mountains in
miniature with broad flat summits and gentle inclines--a fortress in
the plain giving command of the hill.
[Illustration: The Day after the Retreat.]
Riding across the level country we drew near to the hills on the North,
and began to realise better the task that the Japanese had performed so
brilliantly. Near Chiu-lien-cheng the hills descend to a sandy flat,
through which runs the river Ai, which the soldiers forded up to their
necks. We passed over at a shallower place where coolies were wading
through three feet of water, and animals were rolling over with their
packs. Here the river approaches very close to the foothills, but makes
a bold sweep as it draws near to Chiu-lien-cheng. In this arc of a
sandy circle we happened upon the field hospital. Around the white bell
tent, over which floated the Red Cross, were gathered the wounded and
the dying. Upon the ground lay an officer shot through the chest; there
was blood also on his brow; his hands moved convulsively, and in his
eyes was the look of death.
The work of saving the living was too urgent to spare precious moments
upon those for whom there could be no hope, and the soldier calmly
awaited release from suffering. Stretched upon the dissecting table
was another officer with blond beard and blue eyes. The surgeon was
dressing a wound in the thigh, while Colonel Hagino lighted a cigarette
for the patient. The operating room of a London hospital could not
have been more orderly or more clean than this field hospital to which
wounded Japanese and Russians were borne upon stretchers. It was,
however, a scene on which I did not care to dwell and I rode onward to
Chiu-lien-cheng. Passing the base of the Conical Hill where the Russian
guns fought so bravely on the previous day, and where the Russian
General was mortally wounded, I came to the foot of the pass through
which the enemy had retreated. Here along the base and slopes were
the Russian sungars--very primitive in construction and affording no
protection whatever against shell fire.
Chiu-lien-cheng is a very small village which owes its existence to its
position on the Imperial Pekin Road. It consists of little more than a
street of houses with stone walls and tiled roofs, yet you no sooner
enter it from Korea than you breathe a cleaner and a freer atmosphere.
The filth and lethargy of Korea are most oppressive, and after a few
weeks experience of the people and their dwellings even China is a
white man’s Paradise.
[Illustration: Abandoned Russian Field Kitchen.]
It was dark when we turned our backs upon Chiu-lien-cheng and set out
for camp. The distance by way of the pontoons was ten miles, whereas it
was little more than five if we crossed the islands direct. We decided
to take the short cut, believing that the rivers in our line of march
had been pontooned for the artillery that passed us on the way. At
the first stream we found no bridge, but were directed to a ford by a
soldier who kept watch by the bivouac fire on the bank of the river.
For a hundred yards or so the water was shallow enough, but it grew
deeper and deeper, until two of our horses were swimming and another
was struggling on the edge of quicksand. There was nothing for it save
to turn back and seek the aid of pontoon boats in which guns and horses
were being transported. As we rode along the bank our horses shied at
several dark objects on the sand. They were dead soldiers, who lay as
they had fallen in the fight of that morning.
The boats took us to the other side, and we felt that our troubles
were over. They had, however, only begun, for at the main stream,
which is several feet in depth, and four hundred yards wide, there
was no pontoon, and the boats were carrying soldiers. It looked as if
we must retrace our steps or remain on the island all night. Long and
diligent search was made for an officer who would give us authority
to commandeer a boat, but none could be found. For an hour or more
we stood helpless in the shadow of the temple, where a sergeant was
sorting official papers by the feeble light of a Chinese lantern.
At last we determined to take a boat and row ourselves across. Our
craft was made of two pontoon boats held together by a platform that
gave room for four horses, and was propelled by heavy sculls. In due
time, and without great difficulty, we landed half our party on the
south island, and some rode away, leaving others to return for their
comrades. I remained to take charge of the horses, and was looking
anxiously over the dark river when two soldiers approached very
cautiously, and with their rifles ready. Halting about twenty paces
distant they spoke, but what they said I could not understand.
“_Akokojin_,” I replied. “Englishman.” Whereupon they came up and
went through a little pantomime, which I have no doubt was intended to
convince me that I had come very near being shot for a Cossack. With a
soldier for guide we reached at last the bridge that spanned the south
stream, and at four o’clock in the morning were in camp. It had taken
twelve hours to get those messages censored, and they had still to
be carried hundreds of miles on foot through Korea before they could
arrive at a telegraph office.
Chapter XV
“THE PEACE OF THE EAST.”
ANTUNG CITY.
Within the limit of five degrees the earth offers no stranger contrasts
than those of Japan, Korea, and China. The fairy who watched over the
birth of Japan was of dainty form; Korea had a slut for godmother,
and China an opulent dame. Japan is a land for the poet who sings in
dithyrambics; Korea calls for the scavenger; while China would gladden
the eye of the farmer. But the contrast goes deeper than the soil. The
people have differences more manifest. In Japan is a race new-born--a
brave, hardy, energetic race, with the assurance and vanity of untried
youth inspired with a boundless patriotism. Koreans walk their dung
heaps in winding sheets like corpses looking for an undertaker. Life
has gone out of them, and nothing remains save dirt and decay. Cross
the Yalu and you have journeyed on the magic carpet so wonderful is
the change. Here is a fine, healthy, vigorous people, instead of a
moribund; here industry takes the seat of lethargy; here is pride of
race which awaits only the awakening voice of patriotism.
Strangers in all countries are apt to form hasty conclusions, and to
pronounce very decided opinions on insecure basis. But war is a good
crucible in which to sift all character. Its terrors and surprises;
its privations and sacrifices bring into instant and bold relief the
qualities of a people. You have not to grope for them in metaphysical
darkness. They stand out before you by day in a pillar of cloud, and by
night in a pillar of fire. The people of Manchuria, whether Manchu or
Chinese, have proved themselves men. They are the victims of war who
have not the satisfaction of shouldering a rifle; yet they stood firm
and received the victor without cringing and the vanquished without
insult.
When I rode into Antung two days after the passage of the Yalu the town
had a holiday aspect. The streets were filled with people, above whose
bare heads and black pigtails towered posts that looked like glorified
Venetian masts. They are flat boards, thirty feet high, stained a dull
black and covered with ideographs in relief. Near the top is a disc of
tin that catches the rays of the sun and shines with the fierce light
of the dragon’s eye. The ideographs are in gold, and live and talk as
only Chinese letters live and talk among all the written characters of
the world. Standing in rows a few paces from the doors these glittering
boards proclaim the merits of Wang Fungtsao’s merchandise and Yuan
Siekai’s skill as a builder of Pekin carts; but to the stranger they
are more than sign posts; they are monuments the brilliance and
magnificence of which are stars in the drab dulness of a Chinese town.
What brought the citizens into the streets? With eager outstretched
faces they lined the high footway; their blue cotton garments and
felt shoes filled the road, and on every intelligent yellow face was
a look of earnest anticipation. Yet not a sound came from them. The
mob divided, and there appeared the dark blue of Japanese soldiers.
They marched with rifles shouldered, and their immobile faces actually
betrayed excitement. The crowd opened, and behold a long dark line
of men walking in couples--men of a different race, fair men with
blue eyes and blonde moustache, wearing caps of Astrakan and dyed
sheepskin. They had the erect, easy carriage of soldiers, and each
man’s earth-stained face wore the impress of his mood. The glance
of the youth with the fierce moustache wandered over the crowd with
haughty disdain; the man with the scar on his brow had his eyes in
infinite space--he was seeing visions of vengeance--the comrade near
him scowled under a blood-stained sheepskin; while the veteran behind
accepted the fortune of war with easy indifference. A soldier in the
hands of his enemies arouses a great compassion. He is the embodiment
of helplessness and despair, to whom his bitterest foe will render aid
and comfort. But a band of prisoners excite many emotions. They have
the semblance of strength and purpose strangely out of keeping with
the idea of captivity. One wonders how they allowed themselves to be
taken, and if they will not arise and burst their bonds. I would like
to know what thoughts were passing through the minds of the Japanese
soldiers who looked on. They must have been the thoughts of men vowed
to death or victory, for every soldier of the Mikado is nurtured on
the traditions of the Samurai, who counts life nothing if the cause
be lost. The Chinese watched with eager curiosity the march of their
late masters under a foreign guard. He does not love the Russian who
stole his country, but with the Chinaman love of self is stronger than
love of country; he is before all else an individualist, and knows not
what a day may bring forth--it may be a Siberian guard or a Japanese
procession. He prudently waits upon events which are his true master.
“The Peace of the East”--that is the literal meaning of Antung--was
one of the immediate causes of the war. In accordance with commercial
treaties concluded between China on the one part and Japan and the
United States on the other, it was a treaty port open to foreign trade.
Russia had another destiny in view for Antung, but the new diplomacy
which ratifies and signs treaties with an electric pen that reaches on
the instant across the world, proved too quick for the fate ordained
in St. Petersburg, and “The Peace of the East” is still nominally an
open port. An American Consul had been appointed, and was reported
to be on his way hither. Antung is situated on the right bank of the
Yalu, about twenty miles from its mouth, in the province of Feng-t’ien.
The approaches and estuary are not charted, but are well known to the
masters of coasting vessels who make occasional visits in the Autumn
to purchase raw silk and cocoons. Navigation is rendered difficult
by shoals and sandbanks, yet junks can ascend the river for fifty
miles, and the Japanese gunboats that bombarded the Russian position
North-west of Antung have shown that a channel may be found for
steamers of deeper draft than was generally supposed. A large number
of junks are employed in the commerce of Antung which is considerable,
the imports consisting of nankeens, oil, iron, and provisions;
while the exports are timber, planks, bean-cake--an excellent horse
feed--liquorice, and “wild” silk.
Measured by our own standards Antung is not clean. The smells that rise
up from unexpected places and assault you are occasionally alarming;
dust and dirt affront you on all sides; and the people are unwashed.
Yet compared with most Chinese cities, Antung is a Dutch kitchen, and
to step from Korea into Manchuria is to step out of a noisome swamp
into a clear cool stream. The streets are fairly wide and the footpath,
where it exists, is raised two or three feet above the road. The houses
are one storied and are built of dark stone roofed with heavy tiles.
At its best the town has a mean and dingy aspect, and does not improve
on closer acquaintance. When the Japanese entered, the streets looked
like rows of poor shops with the shutters up, for Chinese doors are
shutters, as you discover when in answer to knock and cry of “Kaimeni”
the side of a house begins to come away in sections. Those of us who
kept up with the advance were quartered upon a wealthy merchant at
whose door stood one of the glorified sign posts. His house is a type
of all well-to-do houses in Manchuria. On each side of the entrance
hall is a large and lofty room with shelves along the walls, and at one
end a broad platform covered with straw matting. These are the shops or
warehouses. The shelves are empty, for everything has been removed and
hidden until confidence has been restored by the proclamations which
the Japanese make haste to post upon the walls calling upon the people
to resume their ordinary pursuits and assuring them of protection to
life and property. Between these two apartments the entrance hall
leads direct into a courtyard, on one side of which are stables and
piggeries, and on the other a row of small rooms used as dwellings.
These rooms also have mat covered platforms which serve the purpose
of beds and lounges and are lighted by windows of oil paper attached
to moveable wooden frames. The floors are of beaten earth and the
furniture consists of a table, a chair, one or two stools and a wooden
bench. The ceiling has a picture paper and the blackened walls show
traces of a paper of geometric design. Everything about the place is
solid and substantial after the manner of things Chinese, but dirt and
squalor prevail.
The Manchus having given the dynasty to the Empire claim the privilege
of conquerors. They pay no taxes; the examinations that open the
door to preferment are made easy for them; they draw pay and rations
from the government and do no work. With such incentives, it is not
surprising to find them indolent, ignorant and self-satisfied. They
have lost all manly qualities except pride of race. A Manchu may
condescend to marry a Chinese woman; but a Chinaman is not permitted
to marry a Manchu woman though the Empress Dowager has issued an edict
recommending such marriages. Between the Chinese, who call themselves
Min-jen or civilians, and the Bannermen or Ch’i-jen, it is hard to
detect any difference in dress or appearance. The Manchu women dress
their hair differently and do not bind the feet of their daughters;
although in order to imitate the tottering gait of their Chinese
sisters they wear shoes with thick soles curved inward from toe to
heel. But the Manchus are only a very small part of the population of
Antung; their number throughout the Empire probably does not exceed
three millions. It is the industrious Chinese or Min-jen who make the
trade and commerce of this treaty port.
The Japanese troops had not been twenty-four hours in the town before
it began to put off its impoverished look. Small and mysterious
packages appeared on shelves that had gaped in emptiness: bean cake
and chopped straw were dragged out from dark corners: horses and
mules and Pekin carts walked out of space: and that which seemed
a famine-stricken and denuded city became a mart. The change was
gradual, for the Chinese are suspicious and demanded proof of the good
intentions of the new invaders. The vendor of sweet cakes and eggs and
a vile concoction of alcohol and fusil oil was the first to hazard his
wares, and the result must have been satisfactory, since the cashier
presently took his seat at the desk in the warehouse, or large store,
and goods were exchanged for military notes issued by the Japanese.
These notes, by the way, were at first accepted with great reluctance,
and at a discount of ten per cent., which made the purchaser anxious to
avoid them: but confidence was soon restored and they were accepted at
face value, though the cost of everything which was previously measured
by the Mexican or silver dollar was fixed by the Japanese yen: in other
words prices rose fifty per cent.
When you leave the dingy heart of the town and approach the river you
realise that Antung is a place of considerable importance. The Yalu at
this point is about a mile wide and the river front is crowded with
junks--those square-built square-rigged boats that swarm over the
Yellow Sea and are capable of sailing one hundred miles in six hours or
in sixty. Many are engaged in trade with Yongampo, the head quarters of
the Russian Far Eastern Timber and Mining Company, on the other side of
the Yalu, while others run between Manchuria and Chinese and Japanese
ports. In the creeks are more junks building or being repaired, and
on the banks are piles of timber and bean cake awaiting shipment. A
busy and picturesque scene the river presents with its tangle of brown
sails; its blue-gowned sailors; and its wooden ships with all their
strength and grace of line.
After two nights I quitted the house of the merchant to make my abode
in a temple on the outskirts of the town. The temple stands near the
foot of a green hill, and is one of the richest in the Empire. Before
its walls stretches a broad open space, in the centre of which is a
stone building--an open-air theatre, with a beautiful roof decorated
with dragons and bells that breathe sweet melodies to the gentle
breeze. The theatre used for religious celebrations was closed. The
outer wall of the temple is of stone, with a broad band of pink wash
along the middle, and you reach the outer court through a circular
gate. Flights of stone steps lead to a stone balcony, from which gates
give access to smaller courtyards, on each side of which are spacious
rooms that appear to have no sacerdotal use, and are probably the
apartments of the priests. The temple proper forms the outer wall
of the square, and is separated into several shrines, each of which
has its particular deity and images. The interiors of these shrines
resemble Roman Catholic chapels in their elaborate decoration, their
lamps and candles and their graven images. This temple, I was told,
is dedicated to Taoism, which was imported from India long before the
Christian era, and numbers its votaries by millions. It is named the
Temple of the River God, though all the gods and goddesses of Olmpus
appear to be gathered under its roof. Here, in a shrine which the aged
priest showed to me with conscious pride--an ornate and beautiful
shrine--sits the god of war gorgeously apparelled, a pompous rather
than terrifying figure, with full red cheeks, a straggling black beard
and dark oblique eyes. In a neighbouring shrine images of goddesses,
some of them carrying infants that might have been modelled from
Italian masters. The priest exhibited these treasures with the languid
air of one who took pity on the ignorant Western devil who had invaded
these sacred precincts. He was a courteous old gentleman, wrapped up in
that impenetrable conceit which protects China against the influence of
the West.
I pitched my tent in the outer court, and woke every morning to a new
admiration of the beauty and simplicity of the roof of the temple. It
was a source of unending delight to the eye. The form, I am sure, is
taken from the tent--that square tent of the nomad--for it falls in
simple and graceful lines from the ridge pole, and is picked up at the
corners as a dainty maid holds her skirts. Tiny dragons and devils sit
upon the ribs and grin down from the eaves: they look as if they had
just alighted and were about to take flight again. And the colour is
splendid, with rich greys and deep browns above a border of crimson and
gold.
One morning I was aroused by the droning of pipes, the clashing of
cymbals, and the beating of a drum. Looking out of my tent I saw three
men in the outer court whose poor dress and unwashed faces led me to
believe that they were itinerent musicians, of whom it was desirable
to be rid by the present of a few cash. They were, however, the temple
minstrels, and this was a feast day, for trooping through the gates
came crowds of citizens of Antung, all clean and well dressed for
the occasion. Some of them bore gifts of money: others of kind, such
as pigs and wheat: but the majority were content with joss sticks.
Entering the temple in small parties they spread carpets before the
images and performed the rites of genuflection and raising of hands,
precisely like the action of the Roman Catholic priest at the altar.
Lighting their joss sticks they placed them in a box before the shrine
and left them to pour incense of smoke, while some minor priest beat
the tom-tom and clashed the cymbals to call the attention of the god
to this act of worship. In the little courtyard before the shrine
stood a stone lamp--a pillar of stone with a cavity on the top. To
this lamp were attached long strings of crackers that produced much
smoke and noise to the satisfaction of the multitude. The scene and the
ceremony were familiar rather than strange, and carried my mind to the
house on the hill where the Danish Lutheran missionary--the Rev. J.
Vyff--preaches against an idolatry in which he recognises many points
of close resemblance with the religions of the West.
Chapter XVI
THE MARCH INTO MANCHURIA.
FENG-HOANG-CHENG.
“The merciful man has no enemies.” This was the legend that met the
eye of General Kuroki when he dismounted to receive the welcome of the
Governor of Feng-hoang-cheng. Despite the cyclones of passion that
sweep over this Empire the Chinese are no lovers of brute force. The
Confucian doctrine of life which has dominated China for two thousand
five hundred years does not tend to develop the aggressive virtues,
and this legend, inscribed in crimson upon a scroll of white silk,
represents the attitude of the Chinaman toward all matters that do not
appear to touch his rights or his dignity. The Chinese are punctilious
in the discharge of all the obligations of courtesy, and their greeting
of the victorious soldier was marked with a kindliness, a dignity and
an æsthetic taste of which I found evidences in every direction and
among all classes. The scene was more strange than impressive. Upon
the dusty plain, which stretches before the city down to the bank of
the shallow river, was assembled a crowd of civilians and soldiers and
officials. Under a rude pavilion, draped with crimson and adorned with
the motto “The merciful man has no enemies,” sat the Governors of the
Province, the city and the garrison, with others who were in authority
over the people. Their loose surcoats were of many colours--deep
violet, and crimson and blue, and the sheen of their silken garments
was lustrous in the brilliant sunshine. They sat by the roadside after
the manner of the East. In the dark shadow of brick walls lounged
soldiers whose dress differed little from that of the civilian--a loose
robe of indigo blue and a pair of wide trousers ending in a pair of
felt shoes.
[Illustration: City Wall, Feng-Huang-Cheng.]
[Illustration: A Street Scene, Feng-Huang-Cheng.]
The Manchu soldier is not a martial figure. He is without discipline
or organisation, and in the guard of honour I noted that nearly every
man had a different arm from his fellow; one an old carbine, another a
muzzle loader, a third a Winchester, a fourth a Mauser. Moreover he is
indolent and wanting in intelligence and is addicted to opium. There
is a rule excluding opium smokers from the ranks, but you have only to
look at officers and men to know that nine out of ten are victims to
this destructive habit. Its calls are imperious and unless they are
obeyed the men collapse. In the Japanese war, I am told, the Manchu
troops halted to smoke, no matter how pressing the urgency. Near the
river were more soldiers and officers in scarlet surcoats, and straw
hats shaped liked cones, that come well over the face. With these
were the colours--great banners of white silk with crimson characters
denoting the regiments. The Governor invited us to be seated in the
pavilion, but we choose to mingle with the crowd, who greeted us
with the word “Ingwa” or “Englishman.” We were curiosities in their
eyes--the Governor of the city afterwards told me that he had never
seen an Englishman before--and our clothes were examined with interest.
Presently there was a movement in the ranks; the soldiers rose and
left their shelter under the walls; the guard of honour stood at
attention on each side of the road; the banners were unfurled; and
four trumpeters in yellow jackets blew a fanfare. General Kuroki and
his Staff appeared on the far bank of the river. As they rode through
the shallow stream the banners waved; the trumpets sounded, and the
guard presented arms. At the pavilion they dismounted and were received
by the Chinese authorities, the Taotai or Intendent of the Eastern
Marshes speaking a few words which, I was told, were distinguished by
the grace and good breeding in which these people excel. Cards were
exchanged--long strips of crimson paper with the names in black--and
the General and his Staff were invited to enter the pavilion. General
Kuroki offered the place of honour to Prince Kuni, but he refused to
supercede the Commander-in-chief who accordingly seated himself in the
centre of the bench at a table spread with sweet cakes. Tea was served
with due ceremony, and the General and his Staff rode away amid bows
and music and waving of flags that set the horses prancing.
Feng-hoang-cheng is about thirty miles, or two days’ march from Antung.
We left the treaty port on Wednesday the 11th, and halted for the
night at Tang-chan-cheng which is midway on the Imperial Pekin Road.
Crossing the ridge that forms the Northern boundary of the river Yalu,
we descended into a broad valley shut in by mountains. The land is
rich and well cultivated, and on every side were the charred ruins of
substantial homesteads. The Russians in their retreat had set fire to
every building and but for their haste would have given Antung to the
flames. This destruction of private property was wanton and senseless
and had not even the pretext of being directed against combatants. In
this two days’ journey I saw more ruined houses than in six months’
trek in the Transvaal, and I wondered if the Continent of Europe
would be as deeply agitated over these acts of war against a harmless
and peaceful peasantry as they were over the firing of houses used
as trenches with the white flag over them. Away to the East of this
desolated valley rose a range of hills dominated by a mountain that
springs from the plain like a huge knife with the edge of the blade
toward the sky. The summit is sharp and precipitous and the slopes are
dark and rugged. It was near this razor-like ridge that the Russian
guns were lost and a regiment was decimated.
It is said that the Chinese care nothing for the provinces of
Manchuria. They form no part of the Eighteen Provinces which fill the
Chinaman’s conception of his native land, though they gave birth to the
ruling dynasty. This indifference may be real and may account for the
ease with which the Russians have overrun the country: yet Manchuria is
a land worth fighting for. It covers an area of 336,000 square miles:
it produces grain of all kinds, vegetables in plenty, tobacco, hemp,
indigo, and opium; silk culture flourishes in the South: the forests
and mountains supply skins, furs, and timber: on the Eastern steppes
sheep, cattle, and horses are reared in inexhaustible numbers: gold
is found in the North and along the Eastern frontier to the Upper
Sungari in the South: the climate is good, though somewhat rigorous:
and the inhabitants are a fine, hardy, industrious people, much more
friendly toward foreigners than the people of China proper. And it is
a beautiful country, with rich valleys, clear streams, and mountains
clothed with forests of pine and oak. Our camp at Tan-chan-cheng was
pitched in an orchard, and pear blossoms fell upon our tents like
flakes of snow. The homestead was foul and neglected: the farmer and
his family were dirty and indifferent to comfort, yet the fields were
carefully cultivated and there were evidences of abundant prosperity.
Next morning we resumed our march along the bank of an affluent of the
river Tsao, which stream the Imperial Pekin Road follows northward to
the Mou-tien-ling pass. The country is mountainous and the river winds
among hills clothed with emerald green woods. A plain brought us to
Kao-li-men, where the mountains converge to form a broad pass guarded
by a conical hill. Kao-li-men is known as the Gate of Korea and through
this pass ran the willow palisade which marked the Chinese possessions
in Manchuria when the Ming dynasty occupied the throne.
This palisade, which for two hundred and ninety miles is still the
frontier of Manchuria, enclosed the fringe of the Western coast of the
Gulf of Liao-tung, and the valley of the Lower Liao river, reaching its
most Northerly point at Wei-yuan-pu-men, eighty miles to the North of
Mukden, on the Imperial Pekin Road. Bending South-east and South from
this gate the palisade ran through Kao-li-men and rested its flank
on the Yellow Sea. The country within the pale was formerly known as
Liao-tung and Liao-hsi, that is, the territory East and West of the
Liao river. I am told that the gates and traces of the fence exist to
this day, but I looked in vain. The only evidence I could discover was
in the termination of the name Kao-li-men, for “men” means “gate.”
Outside the pale, inhabiting the mountains and forests, were clans,
half Mongol, half Tungusian--a race of mighty hunters who lived by
the chase. As many of the names of places show, a great part of the
Southern province of Manchuria was at one time Korean.
When we crossed the Yalu there was a report that the Russians would
make a determined stand at Kao-li-men. The country is well adapted to
defensive tactics. An enemy advancing from the South must pass over
open ground and through defiles commanded on both sides by hills, and
the approach to the Gate of Korea is dominated by a semi-circular
range. The strategic weakness of the position--like that held by the
Russians on the Yalu--was the want of lateral lines of communication,
and the fact that the Pekin Road, which is the only communication
to the North, is open to flank attack. However, it was clear that
the Russians had contemplated holding this pass. The roads in the
neighbourhood of Kao-li-men were entrenched, and the trenches were deep
and better made than the primitive death traps on the Yalu. But they
had evidently changed their minds and fallen back upon Liao-yang, a
position of greater strength and strategic importance. Our progress to
Feng-hoang-cheng was accordingly uninterrupted, and we rode leisurely
along the bank of the river, over cultivated plains and in the shadow
of green hills.
Feng-hoang-cheng is situated on the plain in the apex of an angle
of hills, one side of which extends towards Antung and the other
South-west in the direction of Ta-kou-chan. It is the only town on the
Pekin Road between Liao-yang and the coast, and has a population of
twenty thousand peasants and small traders. Like most Chinese towns,
Feng-hoang-cheng consists of compact rows of one-storied houses and
shops with tiled roofs. The streets are unpaved and fairly wide, and
the general aspect is dingy and poor. At the Northern end of the town,
where the hills begin to converge, is a walled enclosure three or four
hundred yards square, within which dwell the Governor and officials--a
small village, shut in by brick walls eighteen feet high and three
feet in thickness. No architectural feature relieves the dull level of
one-storied buildings, and no touch of colour stands out of the drab
dinginess.
The Intendent of the Eastern Marshes is a man of consequence. He is
responsible for the administration of one of the three Provinces that
occupy the North-east corner of the Chinese Empire. His capital is
Feng-hoang-cheng--a city with a record of two thousand years--and his
province of Feng-tien has an area of fifty-five thousand square miles.
The importance of this district is to be measured at the moment not by
its extent or by the undoubted richness of its soil but by its position
on the map. Feng-t’ien borders on Korea, on the Yellow Sea and on the
Gulf of Liao-tung. It was, therefore, in the heart of the war and among
its mountains and valleys would be determined the fate of Manchuria.
Before I called upon the Intendent I learned a few elementary facts of
the elaborate system of the Chinese civil service with its checks and
balances. There are three Governors in this Province, and though their
authority and duties differ, each exercises a moderating influence on
the other. The Military Governor is, of course, a Manchu, and commands
the Manchu soldiers or bannermen, of whom nearly eighteen thousand are
stationed in the province, four thousand six hundred being “foreign”
drilled.
Being of the race from which sprang the ancestors of the reigning
dynasty the Military Governor ranks first in the administrative
hierarchy. His powers, however, are limited, and he serves only as a
visible sign of the predominance of the Manchu race. After him ranks
the Taotai, known as Tung-pien-tao, or Intendent of the Marshes,
whose authority is wider and more real, and under him again is the
Governor of the City with duties more defined and circumscribed. When
he is master in his own house the Intendent lives within the citadel
or walled enclosure. The necessities of General Kuroki’s Staff have
banished him for a time beyond these brick walls, which have only the
semblance of strength, despite their iron crusted doors and deep gates.
In a dusty forecourt, the entrance to which was guarded by a Japanese
sentry, was a stand of colours denoting the presence of the Governor
of the Province. Passing through a small apartment draped with crimson
cloth I came to an inner court and the seat of justice. Here, in
a crimson-draped alcove were a crimson chair and table. Upon the
table were several narrow wooden boxes, in which stood wooden labels
inscribed in Chinese characters, and at one end encased in yellow
cloth was something that looked like a triple crown. The labels were
tablets stating the nature of the punishment inflicted on criminals--a
space being left for the judge to write the number of strokes or other
directions--and the crown was a casket containing the official seals.
While these mysteries were being explained for my instruction, the
Governor appeared and invited me to enter a room adjoining the seat of
justice.
Chang-shi-lam is a man of commanding presence, tall and graceful
of figure in his robes of black silk, with a face of the keenest
intelligence--strong, mobile, and pleasant to look upon. Dressed in
European clothes he might easily have passed for a well-bred and
cultured Englishman. He received me with a smile, and we took our seats
at a round table, over which hung a cheap paraffin lamp of European or
American ugliness, and on which were cigars and cigarettes of Japanese
make. Conversation was difficult, for it had to be conducted through
two interpreters--first into Japanese, and then into English--but so
keen and responsive was Chang-shi-lam that after the usual compliments
we found ourselves engaged in most animated talk. The face of the
Governor was as expressive as that of an accomplished actor, and his
dark eyes lighted up with eloquence as he spoke of the war and the
condition of his people. Twenty years ago Chang-shi-lam was appointed
Governor of this province, but in the interval he has filled other
offices, and had returned to Feng-hoang-cheng only within the last
six months. He is evidently a man in whom the Central Government have
confidence, for they have placed him in a very difficult and delicate
position. I began by speaking of the satisfaction it must give him to
see the people ploughing the land and conducting themselves as if war
was far removed from the province.
“Yes,” he replied, “the attitude of the people toward the Japanese is
altogether different. The Russians took our goods, our horses and our
mules, paying nothing for them or only half the price at which they
were valued. It may be that the needs of the two armies are different,
but at least the Japanese pay for what they take and leave us the means
of ploughing the land.”
The Governor spoke without bitterness, ascribing this difference in
treatment to the pressing needs of the Russian army. I asked if they
had done much damage to the town.
“No,” was the answer. “Before they retired they wanted to set fire to
the stores, but the people implored them to spare the buildings and
undertook to bring out the stores so that they might be destroyed.
While this work was in progress report came that the Japanese were
at hand and the Russians fled, leaving behind many things, including
winter clothing and ammunition.”
“How long was the column that passed through here after the passage of
the Yalu?”
“The head of the retreating army entered the town at four o’clock in
the afternoon and marched without a break until three o’clock on the
following afternoon. A few hundred stayed behind to destroy the stores
but went away very quickly.”
From the war we passed to the history of the city.
“Its records go back two thousand years,” said the Governor. “In those
days the country hereabout formed part of Korea, as many of the names
indicate. There is a tradition that Feng-hoang-cheng once sheltered a
Chinese Emperor, but it is only a tradition. If you go into the hills,
however, you will find many tablets of stone recording the visits of
men famous in letters and in war. The country is very beautiful though
it contains few things that would interest the archæologist beyond the
traces of the willow palisade.”
I spoke of the condition of the people.
“They are very poor and very ignorant,” replied Chang-shi-lam. “Few
of them would know what that is”--taking up a box of matches from the
table--“and they would not know what to do with these”--pointing to
the cigarettes and cigars. “Beyond tilling the ground they have no
industries, unless you take into account the culture of wild silk. When
I was Governor here twenty years ago I encouraged the people to go into
the hills and cultivate the ‘wild’ silk. It is now worth from twenty
to thirty thousand pounds a year, and brings us into trading relations
with the port of Antung.”
“And your people,” I asked, “are they well-behaved? Have you many
offenders to receive the punishment written on the tablets?”
The answer may appear strange, yet it reveals the attitude of the
Chinese toward Western civilisation, and shows their supreme contempt
for our commercial ideals. The Chinese recognise four grades in the
social scale--scholars, farmers, labourers and merchants, and it was in
this order that the Governor spoke of the conduct of the people.
“Our farmers give no trouble; they are content with tilling the soil
and reaping the harvest. The labourers have employment, and are
satisfied with little. We have some small traders and shopkeepers, but
we have few serious offences to punish.”
There, I believe, you have the real opinion of the Chinese official
on the subject of trade. The “shang,” or merchant, as in Japan, is
at the very bottom of the social scale--a parasite, who adds nothing
to the common wealth, but exists on the labour and needs of others.
I was the more surprised to have this quick revelation from a man of
the character and intellect of the Intendent of the Eastern Marshes,
because when in acknowledgment of his courtesy I offered to submit
myself to cross-examination, he spoke eloquently of the wide difference
between European and Chinese civilisation.
“It is twenty years,” he said, “since I spoke with an Englishman in
Feng-hoang-cheng, and I have never been beyond the borders of China.
I have, however, read the diaries of many of my friends who have
visited England, and I am aware how far in advance is the civilisation
of Europe. I hope that in time we may make some progress in the
same direction. We entertain for England and her people sentiments
of gratitude and friendship. The English were the first to establish
schools in Pekin, and to teach us something of Western thought and
achievement. They taught us also how to regulate our trade and how to
collect our Custom dues; and we learned from them something of the
training of soldiers. We have tried to imitate you, but we are still
far behind, though not without hope.”
I am aware that language of this kind on the lips of an Oriental is
nothing more than the compliment which good breeding dictates; but
Chang-shi-lam spoke with such convincing earnestness, his face was so
instinct with intelligence, and his eyes had such a look of mournful
contemplation that I am disposed to count him among those progressive
Chinamen who are not wrapped up in that impenetrable conceit which
excludes the very notion of reform. In reply to his compliments I
observed that we must become even better friends as our civilisation
grew more alike, though we could not but venerate a civilisation which
had given Confucius to the world, and had produced so many men of
learning. Before taking leave of the Governor I expressed the hope that
he and his people would soon be able to live in peace.
“Yes,” he answered, “I hope the contest will end quickly, and that the
fate of Manchuria will be determined once for all.”
The Governor rose and escorted me to the outer court through a group of
retainers, whose faces had crowded the doorway during our interview,
and who had busied themselves by filling the teacups. As I was saying
Good-bye this courtly and distinguished-looking gentleman betrayed the
first sign of curiosity. He took my Panama hat and examined it with
eyes and fingers expressing wonder that straw or fibre could be woven
so fine. But for that little lapse I might have felt that I was taking
leave of a cardinal in the Vatican or some priestly chancellor in the
mediæval days.
Chapter XVII
THE SOLDIER AND HIS WAR SONGS.
The tidal wave of war that swept us over the Yalu left us stranded on
a hill side in Manchuria. Upon the slope of the hill was outspread a
forest of green boughs, in the shade of which we pitched our tents
and awaited the next move in the big game. It was a sequestered nook,
where the moist earth feeds a plenteous crop of weeds and clothes with
verdure the tiny mounds under which generations of Manchus sleep the
sleep that knows not waking. Among the silent memorials of the dead
we made bowers of pine branch and oak leaf, and wreathed them with
snowy hawthorn and scented lilac. At dewy dawn we woke to the song of
thrush and call of cuckoo, and at nightfall we were lulled to sleep by
the breath of the wind sighing through the woods like the murmur of
the lonely sea. From our cool covert we looked upon a valley embraced
by copse-clad hills and a mountain that towers like a bastion above
the plain. Feng-hoang--“Phœnix”--is the name of the mountain and fits
it well, for this sheer rock with furrowed face and razor crest was
born of fire. Along the valley winds the river--a strand of blue in a
web of brown and gold. It was a scene of vernal loveliness. When the
sun flooded valley and hill with gold, the brown earth turned to deep
amber, and the groves shone like emeralds. Under the lambent moon the
landscape was a silver shield embossed with hills and dark tree tops
and a mountain seamed with black ravines. But it was in storm that the
scene was grandest. Then the riven clouds dyed the valley and slopes
with deep shades of amber and brown, and the hills were veiled with
mist like white robed giants lifting proud heads into infinite space.
In the shadow of our sylvan retreat stands a temple--a low roofed
building without size or distinction, dedicated to the worship of
Buddha--and across the plain rise the crenelated walls of the city. The
husbandman was at work in the valley turning over the rich brown soil
with a primitive plough drawn by ox and mule yoked together or sowing
the furrows with millet dropped from a wooden scoop and trodden into
the soil by the foot of one who comes after. Patches of vivid green
showed where the seed had already begun to sprout, and where in a few
weeks would arise a forest of tangled corn twelve feet high, through
which Cossack and cavalry might strive in vain.
The sounds that reached us were few. Twice a day the bronze bell of the
temple summoned us to share our meals with the flies in the squalid
courtyard. Now and again the stillness of the night was broken by
a rifle shot, and you dreamed of Cossacks and Chinese bandits until
you woke to remembrance of the sentries posted on the edge of the
wood, along the hill tops, and at the bridge which leads Northward to
Liao-yang and Mukden. Or it might be that when you were seated round
the camp fire watching the pine branches change into livid tongues of
flame, and the pine cones grow into crimson chrysanthemum there came
through the darkness a strange and startling melody. At first a faint
murmur like the rustling of leaves in the forest, it grew louder and
stronger till you heard the deep roar of an army on the march, mingling
with the shock of arms and the shout of battle.
The Japanese soldiers were singing their war song. Now, since the
olden days when men held that the two things worth doing in this world
were fighting and love making, poetry has busied itself with war. Our
fathers fought and sang of fighting, both in admirable fashion, and
many of our songs are instinct with the joy of battle. What poetry
stirs the blood like Drayton’s “Agincourt” with the dash and rush
of its metre like the charge of a light brigade, or “The battle of
the Baltic” with the concerted music of its rolling rhythm, or that
lofty, insolent, passionate song of Sir Francis Doyle, “Red Thread
of Honour?” The true test of a war song is the power of exciting the
combative spirit and judged by that standard, the songs of the Japanese
are worthy of a place in the anthology of war. The sentiments, I
confess, seem to me political rather than martial--more suited to a
leading article than to the battle field. The words in the literal
translation have none of the real _Berserkgang_ for which we
look in battle poems, and I am driven to the belief that, like the
_Marseillaise_, the favourite song of the Japanese owes its power
to stir the blood to the remarkable way in which it marries itself to a
magnificent tune. General Sir Ian Hamilton has made skilful use of the
material in the following rendering, which he was good enough to make
at my request:--
Sons of Nippon, down with Russia!
Lawless Empire--lay her low
Faith and Justice she despises,
Russia is our mortal foe.
Even kindred foreign nations
Hate and scorn the Russian brood:
Like a wild insatiate wolf-pack
Ravening, they seek their food.
Fair Manchuria’s triple province
Scarce devoured, ere the band
Lick their blood-stained lips and fasten
On Korea--hapless land
Who, unblushing, urged “for peace sake
Render back the Liao-Tung?”
Scarce had ink dried on the parchment
Than another song was sung.
Shameless trampling down the treaty,
Grasping countries far and wide,
All the world turned against her
For her lawlessness and pride.
Comrades, can we live oblivious
Of the blood of comrades slain
Ten years since? Oh, Powers Eternal,
Did their life blood flow in vain!
There must be some end to evil
Even in our life’s short span,
That time is now--for we are marching
Down with Russia--on Japan!
Tell us not of Russia’s vastness--
Vast--may be--but poor and wild:
Boast not of her swarming millions
What are swarms unless combined?
Thousands starving: traitors lurking:
Coffers empty: lack of grain.
How shall Russia stand against us,
Stand the long and weary strain?
But our own dear, precious country
’Neath its Emperor can combine:
For one thousand years successive
Reigns that same immortal line.
We are true and we are loyal.
“Roshia,” as its letters say,[1]
“Dew,” that in the morning sunlight
From the sword blade fades away.
March then with our sunlight banner
Waving proudly in the van:
March beneath that glorious emblem.
Down with Russia--on Japan!
[1] The Japanese character for “dew” and “Russia” is identical.
It was pleasant to live on the hillside instead of in the town. The
freshness of heaven was above us: green trees were about us, and we
felt less the restraint put upon us, for this valley was our prison.
The river was our boundary on the North and East: the mountain shut
out the South, and beyond the Western heights we might not go. The
order had gone forth and we must not ask wherefor. Such was the fog of
secrecy in which the Japanese strove to hide their every movement. In
this quality of secretiveness they are the most Oriental of people, and
observe in all things the letter of the injunction, “Let not thy left
hand know what thy right hand doeth.”
Within these bounds we were free to come and go, unless some
too zealous sentry determined otherwise. It was a new sensation
this enforced confinement, but we shared it with the military
_attachés_ of the foreign Powers, and therefore could not complain
of unequal treatment.
Chapter XVIII
IN MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
A SHINTO SERVICE.
The priest stood on the mountain facing the multitude. In his uplifted
hand was a pine branch hung with strips of white paper--emblems of
the soul’s purity. Swish! Swish! Swish! Thrice the branch swept the
air above the bowed heads in the plain below. The simplicity of this
act of purification, the silence of the vast congregation, the beauty
of the scene--all combined to fill with awe and reverence the alien
spectator as well as the native worshipper. It has been my lot to
attend many services on the field of battle. I have knelt with soldiers
in the desert strewn with ten thousand dead outside the grey walls
of Omdurman; I have heard the song of thanksgiving echo among the
ruins of Khartoum over which hovered the Shade of Gordon; and under a
shell-swept hill in Ladysmith I have joined in the prayer of a besieged
garrison. These are memories that can never fade. Nor will there pass
out of remembrance the scene of that day when an army assembled among
the mountains of Manchuria to do honour to its dead.
No temple raised by human hands could be so majestic and so inspiring
as this valley edged round with purple hills and the deep blue of
heaven above. The walls of the tabernacle were flowing contours of
nearer hills clothed with pine trees and the shelving side of Mount
Phœnix seamed with dark coombs in which nestle shrines and sepulchral
mounds. Old marbles, ever beautiful, were never so rich and rare as
this carpet of brown and green and gold woven by field and grove and
river. Through every shade and tint they ran--from nutbrown to russet
and auburn, from verd antique to emerald and the tender green of
young corn; from orange to saffron and amber and burnished gold--all
blended in one splendid polychrome. Upon this spacious floor stood the
soldiers--eight thousand or more. They were men of the Second Division.
On the right were three regiments of infantry in brigade formation; a
regiment of cavalry was mounted between them and the artillery, who
were without their guns, and on the left stood the engineers and train
battalions. The long lines of khaki looked like a border of old gold in
a gorgeous prayer mat spread before an altar raised upon the heights.
Afar off on a lofty terrace in the shadow of a green bluff the priests
had built their sanctuary--an oblong enclosure marked by banners. The
entrance was a gate of two slender tree stems with a crossbar from
which hung two flags--white with a red sun in the centre--emblems
of Empire and of the Sun Goddess, from whom sprang the long line of
Mikados who have ruled Japan. On the right front of the enclosure
floated a black banner and on the left front a yellow, symbolising
victory and the return home.
At regular intervals were flags of white, blue, yellow, black, and red.
Each colour has its meaning, though what it is must remain the subject
of controversy. Some maintain that these primary colours represent five
elements--earth, air, water, fire, and death: others contend that they
are emblems of the four seasons and of the end of all things: some hold
that yellow signifies the earth, blue the East, red the South, white
the West, and black the North: others will urge that blue symbolises
the beginning of life, red prosperity, white perfection, yellow the
earth, and black death. That they have meaning is certain, though, like
much of the ritual of Shinto and Buddha, it is lost in the mist of ages.
At the back of the enclosure was the inner sanctuary, formed by four
poles hung with rope, from which were suspended narrow strips of white
paper known as “go-hei,” emblems of purity and resting places for the
souls of the departed. The altar was a table spread with a white cloth
upon which rested a mirror--symbol of perfection borrowed from the
Shingon sect of Buddhists. On each side stood an earthen pot from which
rose great paper flowers, red and white and blue, and before the altar
was a small table with a porcelain bowl that held a large pine branch
hung with strips of white paper. At the back of this inner sanctuary
rose a tablet of plain white wood bearing in Chinese characters the
legend: “To the memory of the souls of the departed.” Close by stood a
wooden pail with a wooden dipper, decorated with “go-hei,” to perform
the ceremony of lustration before prayer, and, at a short distance on
the right, was a small screened enclosure where the offerings were
laid. And about the shrine stood white covered trays and baskets,
laden with sacrificial gifts for the solace of the _manes_--heaps
of radishes, piles of rice cake, bottles of beer, flasks of saki, or
rice spirit, fish, and fowl--the fruits of the earth and of the waters
thereof.
To understand the ceremony it may be necessary to say something about
Shintoism. Whatever the country of its origin there can be little doubt
that in growth and development Shinto is a genuine product of Japanese
soil. The nature worship, which is a distinct part of its doctrine,
was probably inherited from the Ainu who first inhabited the island,
while the worship of heroes and ancestors was imported, like Buddhism,
from the mainland of Asia. The Pantheon of Shinto is crowded with a
host of deities; every stream, every mountain, every tree has its god
or goddess; and every hero and every ancestor has its place in Shinto
theocracy. Yet it is a religion only in name, for the Kannuski, or
priests, have no code of ethics and no doctrine of the destiny of man.
They teach no moral duty save that of obedience to natural impulses and
to the dictates of the Mikado. Their prayers are invocations to the
spirits of the dead, and their sermons are formal addresses, partly
eulogies, partly petitions, composed in a language of a remote period
not comprehended by the common people. Shinto, in short, is but a
shadowy cult of ghosts accompanied with sacrificial rites, and demands
of its disciples little more than a visit to some local temple at an
annual festival. Its creed may be summed up in two sentences: belief in
the continued existence of the dead--whether in a condition of joy or
pain is not revealed: and belief in the divine origin and divine right
of the Mikado. Its ritual is distinguished by severe simplicity; its
temples contain no idols; its priests wear no splendid garments; the
only incentives to worship are the mirror which symbolises perfection
and the white strips of paper which signify purity. Despite the absence
of inspiration, of a code of morals and of a theory of destiny--the
essentials of all religions--Shinto is still the national religion of
Japan, and every Japanese from his birth is placed under the protection
of some Shinto deity.
The bugles sounded the general salute, and the shrill notes lingered
in the sunlit air like dying peals of thunder as the solid lines of
khaki in the plain below came to attention. The ceremony had begun.
On the left of the sanctuary were arranged the officers of the First
Army--Major General Matsunaga, Major General Okaziki, Major General
Shibuya, and Major General Kodama--not the assistant chief of the
General Staff--with General Nishi, commander of the Second Division,
at their head. In this group were the foreign _attachés_, General
Sir Ian Hamilton and Colonel Hume having the places of honour. On the
opposite side stood three priests.
In ordinary times the Kannuski are not distinguishable from laymen, but
on this day they wore their sacerdotal robes--long loose gowns with
wide sleeves girdled at the waist. Upon their heads were black hats
shaped like the biretta with a widow’s cap and strings at the back. The
high priest--an old and bearded man of solemn and dignified bearing,
who looked more like a Parsee than a Japanese--wore a sword in a velvet
scabbard, and his gown was of red and black silk, closely resembling
the old-fashioned dimity. The gowns of his assistants were of
drab-watered silk, worn over regulation khaki trousers and regulation
army boots that compelled one to the conclusion that they were private
soldiers clothed for the nonce with priestly authority. Advancing
toward the altar, the priests stood before the shrine, clapped their
hands three times, placed them reverently together, bowed their heads,
and uttered the invocation to the dead. It was an invitation to the
souls of the departed to rest upon the white strips of paper, or
“go-hei.” Returning to their original places, one of the junior priests
took from the table in front of the altar the branch of pine. Raising
it aloft in his right hand he waved the branch over the heads of his
fellow priests, over the officers and _attachés_, and over the
offerings prepared in the little enclosed space. Then, moving to the
front of the sanctuary until he stood on the edge of the terrace, he
swept the air thrice over the heads of the multitude far below. This
was the act of purification in which the pine, or ever-green, signifies
sincerity.
The High Priest thereupon drew near to the altar, and bowing before it
took from his breast a scroll from which he recited in murmuring tones
these words:
“I, Hirokage Shimizu, Shinto priest, reverently speak to the souls of
Lieutenant Jiro Takuma and other officers and soldiers who died in the
battle of the Yalu and elsewhere, inviting them to approach the altar
which we have erected at the foot of Mount Teisen beyond the walls of
Feng-hoang-cheng. When friendly ties were broken and we came to the
Russians with weapons in our hands, you joined the Second Division and
marched to the front with the First Army, knowing that this was the
hour of sacrifice and of duty. Bravely did you endure hardship and
privation on sea and land, on mountain and in valley. But for you the
fight did not end there. On the first day in May you came to the Yalu
where the enemy had all the great advantages that nature had bestowed
on such a position. Here you fought with admirable courage amid hail of
bullet and flash of bayonet. Some of you did excellent service in the
work of reconnaissance, of road and bridge building and of transport.
All of you helped to achieve that brilliant victory which has added
lustre to the Empire and renown to the Army. Here in the citadel of
Feng-hoang-cheng we have some leisure and would willingly tell again
the story of that battle and talk over the future--but, alas, you are
separated from us by the dark veil of death. Alas! we can neither see
your brave faces nor hear your cheerful voices. Deeply do we feel this
separation--we who in brotherly love shared with you the hardships and
privations of the campaign. His Majesty, the Emperor, pleased with
your victory, has proclaimed his recognition of your services; your
countrymen applaud your courage and loyalty. Your merit is loftier than
Mount Phœnix; your fame is brighter than the waters of the Yalu. More
than worldly honour have you won. Your spirits will be forever with
the gods who guard the Empire, and your name will be cherished as an
example of loyalty. Who could withhold his respect; who would venture
to disregard your services. The General who commands this Division and
we also pay respect to your loyal souls by this memorial service held
on the fiftieth day after the battle of the Yalu, and by offerings
of sacred wine and meats. Humbly and reverently do we serve you with
the rest of your comrades. We pray you to accept our services and the
offerings laid upon the altar.”
This allocution ended, the High Priest stood near the shrine with face
turned toward the East, while one of his assistants received from the
hands of a soldier offerings to the dead. These sacrifices represent
the chief substances of human food--rice, wine, fish, fowl, vegetables,
natural sweets, such as fruit, artificial sweets, such as cakes, and
water and salt. Each offering rested on a ceremonial tray or tiny table
covered with white paper and was reverently handed to the High Priest
who placed it upon the altar. For a moment the ceremony was interrupted
while General Nishi descended the slope to escort Prince Kunni to his
place at the head of the officers. His Royal Highness was attended by
General Fujii, Chief of the Staff, and Colonel Hagino.
At the invitation of the High Priest, General Nishi stepped up to the
altar, saluted and opening out a scroll read this eulogy to the dead:--
“We meet on this sacred spot outside the walls of Feng-huang-cheng on
the 19th day of June on the 37th year of Meiji to do honour to the
memory of brave men, officers and soldiers--one hundred and fourteen
in number--who belonged to the Second Division and died in the service
of their country. You, brave dead, bade adieu to your native land
on the 1st day in March, and took part in the memorable attack on
Chiu-lien-cheng on May 1st, having reached the banks of the Yalu in
face of privations and hardships. This our first battle was destined
to test before the eyes of the world the merits of our army, and to
influence the spirit of our soldiers. Japanese courage, as the proverb
says, never fails till death has conquered it. The whole world knows
how we stood to the proof. Our enemy’s defences, strengthened by nature
and art, were easily won. Thus has the glory of Japan been heightened
and the prowess of our soldiers has been sharpened. Most of you fell
on that memorable day. Even now we have before our minds the picture
of your gallantry. Some few died in skirmishes that followed; and many
have fallen a prey to disease which pays no respect to meritorious
deeds. Our hearts bleed at the thought of your brave and noble deeds.
Rest in peace, precious souls! Be comforted by the sweet consciousness
that your brilliant exploits will be blazoned in letters of gold on the
page of history, and that your grand example of self-sacrifice will
be handed down from generation to generation. Our situation at the
front renders it impossible for us to make fit preparation for such a
celebration. Our offerings are small, but we commend our praise and
gratitude to the consecrated memory of the dead.”
Again the bugles rang out filling the valley with the inspiring music
of the anthem “Save our Country”; rifles rattled to the salute and the
army below stirred into life. It was the end. Sharp words of command
followed the notes of the bugle and the troops marched away to their
appointed places at the outposts and lines of defence. Meanwhile the
officers were laying upon the altar the last tribute of respect to the
_manes_ of their comrades. Upon a table near the shrine there
were many small branches of pine to each of which was attached a strip
of white paper. General Nishi strode forward and receiving one of these
branches saluted the altar and laid upon it this emblem of sincerity
and purity. Prince Kunni followed with other officers and the foreign
_attachés_, each of whom paid this tribute to the men who had
fallen in battle.
Chapter XIX
A BUDDHIST CEREMONY.
When the priest of Shinto had bowed before the shrine and the last
offering had been made, the soldiers marched away. But the service
for the dead was not ended. Out of the little sacristy came a priest
in robes of shimmering silk, and placed upon the altar flowers and a
censer. The pine branches were removed, and, behold, the sanctury of
the Sun Goddess became the shrine of Buddha. There was a time within
the memory of men still young when they were worshipped in the same
temple, for the Chinese missionaries who entered Japan in the Sixth
Century accepted the Shinto deities as avatars or incarnations of
Buddha, and the two faiths were so fused that the number of pure
Shintoists and pure Buddhists was very small. By its doctrine and by
its ritual Buddhism appeals to the heart and conscience, and for many
generations it was the popular religion. But with the restoration of
the Emperor the position was changed. If Japan had to adopt a foreign
civilisation, she had, at any rate, a religion that was indigenous, and
suited to the political conditions of the moment. Shinto proclaimed
the divine origin of the Emperor, and its doctrine was implicit
obedience to his decrees. Therefore, Shinto was made the national
religion, and the temples were cleansed of idols and incense and
gorgeous vestments.
The priest gave no heed to the soldiers, who moved away company
after company, and squadron after squadron, until there remained
near the sanctuary only the officers of the staff and the foreign
_attachés_. The Shinto priests stood on the right of the altar,
silent and reverent spectators. Making obeisance to the shrine the
priest recited the prayer invoking the presence of Buddha, while an
assistant, who acted as precentor, muttered the responses. Then the
priest drew near to the altar, and, taking in the fingers of his right
hand some fragments of incense, dropped them into the censer, out of
which arose a tiny cloud of white vapour. Thrice he made this offering,
and, retiring three steps, took from the folds of his green and purple
silk robes a scroll, from which he read:--
“On this the 19th day of June, in the 37th year of the Meiji, I,
Nagao Reirzu, a Priest of Buddha, despatched by the Central Homgwanji
(Temple) and attached to the Second Division of the First Japanese
Army, set up a shrine at the foot of Mount Teisan, outside the walls
of Feng-hoang-cheng, invoking the presence of Buddha and offering
incense and flowers in order that he may comfort the noble spirits of
the loyal and gallant soldiers who fell in the battle of the Yalu.
His Imperial Majesty, our august sovereign, has sought peace by every
art of civilisation and has striven to cultivate the friendship of
civilised nations since the early days of the Meiji era. His efforts
have been especially directed to securing the peace and happiness
of the East by guiding and aiding the countries of China and Korea.
But Russia, insolent and ravenous, taking advantage of the weak and
defying the strong, has trampled justice under foot and has departed
from righteousness. To gratify her greed for territory her troops have
overflowed the plains of Manchuria and Korea. The sins of Russia have
offended Buddha and the gods and have caused our sovereign to issue his
Imperial decree proclaiming war. Thus we come to cross swords with her.
You, precious souls, bore many hardships and privations after leaving
your native land. Difficulties of every kind confronted you. Yet amidst
these trials you did your duty and won the admiration of all who were
witnesses of your noble sacrifice. At last the moment came for the
clash of arms. Shielded behind defences strengthened by nature and art,
the enemy confronted you. Without hesitation you braved the dangers
of shot and shell and charged onward against lines of bayonets until
the enemy’s forts were captured and Chiu-lien-cheng was won--thereby
achieving an unparalleled feat of arms in the eyes of the world. Such
brilliant exploits are to be ascribed chiefly to the virtues and grace
of his Imperial Majesty, but your strength and your self-sacrifice in
the interests of your country did much toward securing the victory.
Alas! you have fallen in battle: shot and shell did not spare you
because of these noble qualities. When my thoughts turn to the field
of that great fight my flesh burns and my senses grow faint. But man
is mortal: the living shall die: those who meet shall part: such is
the law of life. Who can escape the clutches of death: death steals
into every man’s home. But you leave behind you a name that shall be a
glory to your parents. You are good sons and brave men whose dauntless
deeds will inspire with a strong sense of loyalty all who read the
story of your death. Noble men and gallant soldiers! The destiny of a
nation rested upon your shoulders. You knew how to die: you have done
your duty as loyal subjects and dutiful sons and have manifested that
spirit of self-sacrifice and of unflinching bravery which are among
the beautiful traits of the Japanese character. Your deeds shall be an
example to generations to come. Your name shall ring through the groves
of time as long as the waters of the Yalu flow toward eternity. Your
fame will never die: it will be eternal as the snow on the summit of
Fujiyama. This knowledge will console you for the sacrifice you have
made for your native land. In our Buddhist philosophy loyalty, truth,
filial love and fraternity are counted chief among the graces and the
root of all god-like work. By sincerity one may enter the temple of
stoicism and by love one may dwell in the realm of perpetual peace.
These are the workings of the natural law. From the secular point
of view your death was noble: from the philosophic point of view it
was grand. I recite the sublime words of Buddha, burning incense with
sincerity that I may appeal to Buddha and the gods seated amidst the
coloured clouds above and to the gods who are in the depths of the
earth, invoking their protection, and in order that I may offer to your
souls a taste of the Manna of Heaven.”
If you will contrast this sermon, instinct with patriotism and the
destiny of man, with the formal and uninspired words of the Shinto
priest you will understand something of the difference between the
Shinto and Buddhist religions. After the sermon came the reading of
the Sacred Books, and then the offering of incense by the officers
and _attachés_. Each in his turn strode into the sanctury, stood
by the side of the priest, raised his hand to salute the shrine, and
stepping forward dropped a fragment into the censer until its fires
were smothered and the thin cloud of vapour vanished. General Nishi,
as Commander of the Second Division, was the first to make this
offering to the spirits of his dead comrades, and after him came Prince
Kunni, with other members of the Staff, and finally General Sir Ian
Hamilton with his colleagues.
Chapter XX
WHY THE JAPANESE LINGERED AT FENG-HOANG-CHENG.
The Japanese have been blamed for not taking advantage of their victory
at the Yalu to press North without delay. There were many reasons for
hesitation. In the first place they did not know the strength of the
enemy, and feared that General Kuropatkin might descend upon them with
overwhelming force. Between the Yalu and Feng-hoang-cheng were several
strong positions, where the Russians might have made a stand. General
Kuroki accordingly determined to seize the heights about Hamatan,
and to await developments. Cavalry patrols were pushed forward, and
sent back word that the enemy had evacuated Feng-hoang-cheng. These
reports were hardly credited, for Feng-hoang-cheng was a point of great
strategic importance--the junction of many roads--where it was expected
that the Russians would offer strenuous resistance.
General Kuroki advanced upon Feng-hoang-cheng with the utmost caution,
separating his army into three columns so as to guard against
surprise. He was by no means certain that with the force under his
command it would be prudent to remain at Feng-hoang-cheng.
The landing of a small part of the Second Army in the Liao-tung
Peninsula on May 5th introduced a new factor into the calculations.
It was known that a large force of Russians confronted General Oku at
Kin-chow, and there was danger that they would be content with holding
him while the main army struck at General Kuroki. This was a movement
greatly feared by the Japanese and had a powerful influence upon their
plans. General Kuroki was of opinion that for three or four months
he must be prepared to encounter an enemy twice as numerous as his
own army. He had, however, the satisfaction of knowing that if the
Russians came upon him in force, the landing of the Second Army would
be assured. Accordingly he no sooner entered Feng-hoang-cheng than he
proceeded to fortify the surrounding hills. Though the position was
strong for defence, the perimeter was too extended for the force at
his disposal, and orders were given that in the event of attack the
Japanese were to leave the position and meet the enemy in front. The
Twelfth Division was posted on the East, the Second Division on the
West, and the Guard’s Division in the centre on the Pekin road.
On May 26th the battle of Nanshan was fought. Until that victory was
won in the Peninsula it was feared that General Oku would be attacked
by the Russian forces North and South of Nanshan, and that General
Kuroki would be compelled to relieve the pressure on the Second Army
by marching upon Hai-chung. The Russians missed a supreme opportunity.
What they ought to have done was to concentrate their forces and make
a determined assault upon the army in the Liao-tung Peninsula, or upon
the army at Feng-hoang-cheng. But General Kuropatkin’s vicious habit of
“nibbling” prevailed, and no big movement was attempted. The Russian
army was split into ineffectual fragments--some at Kin-chow, others at
Kai-ping, some at Liao-tung, others near Feng-hoang-cheng.
Through all these alarms General Kuroki held fast to his purpose
of accumulating stores and strengthening the position about
Feng-hoang-cheng. He was conscious that the Russians feared him, and
would not willingly leave open the road to Liao-tung, even in the hope
of crushing General Oku. When General Stakelberg moved south to fight
the battle of Te-li-tzu, it appeared as if the moment had arrived for a
rapid march on Liao-yang, but the Japanese knew that the Russian force
in front of them was strong.
Accordingly General Kuroki remained at Feng-hoang-cheng until he had
accumulated stores and munitions of war that made him independent
of the immediate control of the sea, and until there was no further
risk of the Russians concentrating all their forces against one of
the invading armies. The interval of forty-five days was not wasted.
Engineers were occupied in constructing a light railway from the port
of Antung, in building bridges across the winding stream of the Tsa-ho,
which follows the North as far as the pass of Mou-tien-ling, in making
and improving roads over mountains and along valleys, in entrenching
hills that command approaches from the North, and in erecting
bomb-proof shelters and gun emplacements. Warehouses arose outside the
ancient and decaying walls of the city, and were filled with rice and
the simple food of the Japanese soldier.
Nor were the combatants idle while this provision was being made for
their comfort and security. Mobile columns and strong patrols pushed
forward on every side, scouring the country for miles, penetrating
as far North as eighty miles due East of Mukden, and creating an
impression of bewildering activity. On the East a Russian cavalry
division, under General Renekampf--a soldier of great energy and
recognised ability--struggled for mastery along the banks of the Pa-tao
river, and for a week or more Saimaki became the objective of both
forces. Now the town was held by the Japanese, and now we learned that
two battalions of the enemy, with a field battery and a regiment of
cavalry were in occupation, and that the Japanese had fallen back upon
Nai-yang-meun on the Ai-ho. The presence of this force on our right
was an embarrassment, and might at a critical moment become a menace.
General Kuroki, accordingly, determined to remove the risk, and
despatched a brigade to Nai-yang-meun with orders to get behind the
enemy at Saimaki and thus cut off his retreat. As fate would have it,
the Russians chose the very hour of the arrival of these reinforcements
to attack the town, and were defeated. They retired in confusion,
leaving our right flank unassailed. On the West, at Siou-yen the Guards
joined hands with the Division landed at Takushan, and drove the enemy
in the direction of Hai-cheng.
General Kuropatkin, not being gifted with the power of divination,
was deceived by this activity. He evidently believed that General
Kuroki was moving Westward toward the railway, and would presently
join hands with the divisions in the Liao-tung Peninsula. Appearances
lent themselves to this deception. A force had landed at Takushan, two
brigades of Guards had occupied Siou-yen, and every day brought report
of encounters between patrols and small mobile bodies of the enemy. The
long halt at Feng-hoang-cheng helped to confirm the Russian commander
in his delusion.
Chapter XXI
ADVANCE TOWARD LIAO-YANG.
The advance of the First Army toward Liao-yang, long expected,
carefully prepared, began on the 24th of June. The Second Division,
under General Nishi, moved along the Pekin road; their left flank
protected by the Guards Division, and their right by the Twelfth
Division. Our last view of the Phœnix Mountain was from the summit of a
pass overlooking the river Tsao, and a tract of country as beautiful as
an English park.
When we left Feng-hoang-cheng it was with the confident expectation
that the Russians would oppose our advance and that the Second Division
would not be permitted to occupy Mou-tien-ling without a struggle. At
our first halt we learned that the enemy had abandoned Lun-chen-kwan
at the foot of the Pass and set fire to their stores. This hasty
retirement was not the only evidence of surprise. From our flanks
came reports that the Russians were retreating in confusion. Japanese
cavalry occupied the foot of Mou-tien-ling on the morning of the 27th
of June, and save for a Russian post of observation in the Pass the
road was reported clear as far as Chou-chan--eight miles South of
Liao-yang.
The fame of Mou-tien-ling has long been in the mouths of men. It is the
“Heaven-reaching Pass,” and is described in all military text books
as a position of great strategic importance and capable of prolonged
defence. Great things we expected of Mou-tien-ling. Yet when General
Fujii was beguiled into speaking of it we suspected that it would not
bear the test of close acquaintance. Our worst fears were realised
when we ascended the Pass. We looked for a mountain and found a hill,
for fierce crags and found densely wooded slopes, for a dark and
threatening defile and trod a winding forest path, for a wide field of
fire and saw nothing save “dead” grounds.
Our march was Northward. For three nights and days rain had fallen
in a continuous torrent; the rivers were in flood; the loose friable
loam of which the roads are composed was a treacherous bog, and the
hills were veiled in clouds of vapour. For several miles we rode along
a narrow valley shut in by low hills clothed with vivid green. This
defile ended abruptly in a low ridge that closes the North end of the
valley like a barrier reef--the watershed of the Tsao-ho. Here, it was
believed, the Russians would make a stand. The position is adapted by
nature for defence. The reef commands for three miles the narrow valley
along which an army from the South must advance. On either hand are
hills seamed with deep dongas and gullies in which large numbers of
men might rest secure from direct fire. Behind these are other hills
forming a second line of defence, and to the rear of the reef lies a
valley where an army might be sheltered and whence they might approach
the first line of defence without exposing a man to the enemy.
The Russians were evidently satisfied with the physical advantages of
the position, for they had toiled long and arduously to strengthen
it. On the crest of the barrier reef were several empalements for
modern quick-firing guns that could have swept the valley from end to
end. Other guns--about fifty in all--were to have been posted on the
flanking hills. Here, too, were trenches, long lines of them; not the
primitive deathtraps that we saw on the North bank of the Yalu, but
real trenches, scientifically made, five feet six in depth, giving head
cover and approached by traverses. And at the back of the position--a
little to the East--stands a bold conical hill, upon which the Russians
had constructed a large circular and traversed trench like a fort,
dominating the road.
Why had they forsaken these splendid defences? The explanation was
simple. They were in momentary danger of being outflanked. One division
of General Kuroki’s army was marching along the Pekin road; another was
on the left, and a third on the right. Of the movements of the flanking
columns we knew nothing beyond the fact that West of Mou-tien-ling
there is a point at which they might concentrate and join forces with
the central column. Herein lay the danger of the Russian position
at the Dividing of the Waters. Unless General Kuropatkin was well
informed of the movements of the Japanese, and unless he was better
prepared than we had hitherto found him he could not hope to check the
advance of these three independent divisions. The utmost that could be
expected from the Russians was that they might hold the central column
and harass the march of the flanking columns long enough to assemble
a force to prevent any concentration West of Mou-tien-ling, on the
Pekin road. The withdrawal of the main body of the Russian army from
Liao-yang to Kai-ping and Hai-cheng made this impossible, and the road
North lay open to the Japanese. As the divisions on our flanks advanced
the Russian troops at Fun-sui-rei, or the Dividing of the Waters, had
no choice save to retire. When we ascended the barrier there was not
a sign of the enemy; the trenches were empty; the empalements were
deserted; the Russians had withdrawn four days before. Looking South we
saw the long line of Japanese transport moving along the valley between
green hills, and away in the distance rose a tumultuous sea of purple
mountains with crests uplifted to the sky.
At Lien-chen-kwan--five miles from the water shed--we halted once more,
and had another opportunity of realising that the army to which we
were attached was only one of the pawns upon the chessboard. We had
exhausted our moves and must wait.
At four o’clock on the morning of July 4th we had a surprise. The
enemy, who had abandoned Mou-tien-ling three days before, returned
and endeavoured to destroy the outposts on the reverse slope. The
head quarters of the Second Division to which I was attached was
seven miles from the scene of the engagement, and it was not until
the following morning that I received permission to visit the Pass.
The physical features of the country through which we rode are
identical with those to the South of the watershed--a narrow valley,
hemmed in by well-wooded hills that extend in every direction like
furrows in a ploughed field. The road runs due West, and two miles
from Lien-cheng-kwan we halted at the head quarters of the Fifteenth
Brigade, at the door of which sat several wounded prisoners of the 10th
and 24th East Siberian regiments--our old friends of the Yalu. Four
miles beyond rose a bold forest-clad hill--the famous Mou-tien-ling, or
Heaven-reaching Pass. The spur springs abruptly from the river flats,
and the ascent is made by a steep and winding path which ends in a
ravine before the summit is reached. The ridge is narrow, and covered
with a dense growth of trees and bush, and the descent is steep until
you come to a path that strikes Eastward along a cup-shaped valley,
in which are a few scattered homesteads. At the end of this path is a
temple dedicated to the memory of a famous emperor named Kwan-tai. On
the Eastern slope beyond this shrine is another temple, and near to it
a wood that played an important part in the attack on the outposts.
On the 2nd of July the 2nd battalion of the 30th regiment of
Japanese infantry occupied the Pass and made the temple of Kwan-tai
its Head-Quarters. It was the commander of the battalion--Major
Takakusaki--who told us the story of the fight. From the second temple
we walked along a shady lane to a road overlooking a valley on the
Eastern slope of the hill. The road was stained with blood and littered
with spent cartridges and scraps of paper inscribed with Russian
characters. Looking Eastward we saw a broad ravine enclosed with hills
of sharp ascent. The entrance to the ravine broadens to the river bed,
and bending North is closed by several low spurs from one of which
rises a white tower or pagoda. In the bed of the ravine are some farm
houses, and at the South-west corner rises a conical hill behind which
is a new road made by the Russians in order to avoid the steep ascent
of the Pass. This road sweeps round the Mou-tien-ling spur in the
shadow of many ridges. On our left was the wood near the temple, on
our right the new road, behind us the ridges, and before us the broad
ravine with the conical hill on our right. The road on which we stood
overlooking the ravine had a trench that ran up to the wood.
The disposition of the outposts at midnight on the 3rd inst. was after
this manner. A sentry watched from the conical hill, and in the houses
in the ravine was a piquet commanded by Lieutenant Yoshi Seigo, with a
sentry three hundred yards in front and patrols beyond. In the hills
above the new road was posted one company, half of which patrolled the
hilly country nearest to the enemy. In the second temple was another
company covering the left flank, two sections occupied the wood near
the temple, one section lay in the trench on the slope of the ravine,
and two companies were concealed in the valley behind the temple of
Kwan-tai.
Under cover of darkness two battalions of Russian infantry entered the
ravine from the Liao-yang road. They followed upon the heels of the
Japanese patrols so closely that the sentry in front of the picquet
appears to have mistaken them for his comrades. Without answering his
challenge the head of the leading battalion pressed forward and reached
the picquet before the alarm was given. Lieutenant Yoshi Seigo rushed
out to find the house in which the picquet lay almost surrounded. There
was no time to organise any plan, and the picquet pouring out of the
house engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with sword and bayonet. Five of
them were slain, but not before their commander had cut down three of
the enemy. About thirty escaped and made for the head of the ravine
toward the Japanese trench. Seeing a black line on the ridge Lieutenant
Yoshi Seigo came to the conclusion that his comrades were on the alert
and were holding the road against the advancing infantry. Not until he
had approached within a few yards did he discover that he was again
in the midst of the enemy, and that the Russians had already got a
footing on the road. Meanwhile the company in the wood near the temple,
warned by the rifle shots, made ready to receive the attack, and an
officer’s patrol of twenty men who were just on the point of leaving
collected near the wood at the end of the trench. Within a few moments
after the alarm the whole company formed a line from the wood to a
point half way along the road with the enemy in front of them.
The state of the road showed how fierce was the fight. A Japanese
sergeant struck off the head of a Russian officer and slew two men
before he fell pierced by five bayonets. The sword of Yoshihara Chuji
was notched like the edge of a saw. A second lieutenant fought like a
tiger and died with five bullets in his breast. For fifteen minutes or
more the road about the trench was a tangle of dark figures, hacking
and thrusting and shooting. At last the company gave way and fell
back into the scrub behind the ridge, whence it poured a deadly fire
into the Russian ranks. In the meantime, reinforcements were hurrying
from the valley beyond the temple. One company came racing up, dashed
into the wood and out upon the road right into the thick of the foe.
Once more the fight swept on hand to hand, with sword and bayonet and
revolver. Against the ferocity of this attack the enemy recoiled and,
turning, fled down the slope into the ravine followed by the rifle
shots of three companies who lined the hills. The fourth company had
taken a position on the ridge commanding the new road along which
an attack from the second Russian battalion was expected, but this
force of the enemy never got beyond the conical hill at the corner
of the ravine. Finding his flank secure, Major Takakusaki led his
men to the front in time to take up the pursuit. The Russians left
fifty-three dead on the field and forty-seven wounded of whom three
died. Three unwounded men and ninety-eight rifles fell into the hands
of the victorious outpost. The two battalions were accompanied by fifty
Cossack cavalry and brought with them large quantities of supplies as
well as cooking utensils. It looked as if their intention was to stay,
though it was difficult to imagine that this was a serious attempt to
re-occupy the Pass which they had abandoned without a struggle. If this
really was their object it can be explained only on the ground that
General Kuropatkin sought at the last moment to delay our advance until
he could make good his position on the North road. The attack was badly
planned and badly executed. The second battalion took no part in the
action and there was obvious miscarriage of the plan for an assault
on the right flank of the Japanese. The enemy made a gallant fight,
but courage could not avail where leadership was manifestly wanting in
skill and foresight. The Japanese loss was only thirteen killed and
thirty wounded.
Mou-tien-ling, after all, had done something to deserve its repute
in the war of 1894 when the Chinese on two occasions succeeded in
wresting the Pass from the Japanese. As we turned to descend the
mountain we saw on the isolated hill above the ravine--clear against
the blue sky--the solitary figure of a sentinel straining his eyes
toward the East where the enemy lay in silence.
Chapter XXII
ATTACK ON MOU-TIEN-LING.
At dawn, on the 18th of July, we were roused by the sound of rifles and
the hurrying feet of armed men. A dense mist lay over the valley of
Lien-chen-kwan, and out of the darkness beyond came the solemn booming
of volleys. The little stone house on the other side of the river
slept soundly. Nothing of importance could be happening as long as
the General was within those silent walls. We went back to our tents,
but not to slumber. Minutes passed and still the volleys echoed among
the cloud-capped hills. The little house woke with a start. Officers
dropped in by twos and threes; orderlies came and went, and the
hitching posts at the door held a mob of screaming horses. Something
more than an affair of outposts?
We dressed and made ready to ride to the front. But the Japanese were
as careful of us as if they were our mothers. They had set their faces
firmly against risk on our part. “You must wait,” said our mentor, and
he meant it this time. So we waited, booted and spurred--waited and
watched troops hastening forward, wiping the sweat from their brows as
they ran: waited and watched ammunition wagons rumble by: waited and
heard the volleys drowned in the roar of artillery, sharp and solemn
as thunder peals among the mountains. To our impatience was the same
answer: “You must wait.”
The crowd before the little house grew. Foreign _attachés_, eager
for their first battle, came riding up. For them was the same order:
“Wait.” Importunity avails not with a Staff officer whom you must
approach through an interpreter. Near and more near boomed the cannons.
They knocked at our very door. But the Staff officer was unmoved.
“You must wait.” Chinese women and girls seized their bundles and
fled into the mountain whence they had come after the retreat of the
Russians--they did not like the soldiers of the Czar. In the little
house over the river orderlies packed up and prepared for a flitting.
Was it so serious as that? A telegraph section crossed the stream and
ran a wire up the hill where three men stood like statues in the mist.
We breakfasted and waited and watched more soldiers mopping their
foreheads as they doubled past and more ammunition wagons rolling to
the front. At last came release, and at a canter we started for the
scene of action, Mou-tien-ling once more.
For days there had been unwonted activity in the enemy’s camp West of
the Pass. Reinforcements arrived and preparations were made to renew,
on a grand scale, the attack of the 4th of July. Meanwhile, the
Japanese had strengthened their advance post and awaited the assault.
A strict vigil was kept, and for two nights men slept fully armed.
Shortly after midnight on the 16th the officer commanding the brigade
on the North of the Pass was informed that a body of the enemy was
moving on his front. The attack was about to be delivered. He sent
warning to the head quarters of the brigade West of Mou-tien-ling, and
measures were taken to repel the enemy. At half-past two o’clock on the
morning of the 17th a squadron of cavalry and a large force of infantry
appeared in the valley that debouches on the road to Liao-yang, and
reaches by a gradual ascent the road over the Pass. Three thousand five
hundred yards from Mou-tien-ling--on the road to Liao-yang--stands
a white tower, conspicuous on the lower spur of a hill. West of the
To-wan--the name given to this locality--the road approaches the
Pass between hills, and enters a narrow valley in which are two tiny
hamlets--Kinki-hotsu at the Western end, and Lika-hotsu in the middle.
The sides of the valley run North and South and are steep. Leaving the
valley the road ascends past an isolated conical hill to a sharp low
ridge, which closes the Eastern end of the defile. Upon this road,
commanding the valley and its approach from the West is a trench--the
farthest point reached by the Russians on the 4th of July. At the back
of the trench is some scrub, and to the left of it, facing West, is
a small plantation, and behind that again a shrine, from which the
road dips into a gorge, and then ascends to a broad ridge. From the
centre of this ridge, which is like a bow bent between broad backed
hills, rises a temple, large and solidly built--the head quarters
of the post. East of the temple the ridge tumbles into a V-shaped
valley, the Western slope of which rises abruptly to the summit of
Mou-tien-ling--the Japanese line of defence.
Orders had been given that picquets and posts were not to resist
the enemy if he appeared in force. They were to fall back upon the
defensive line on the summit. The Russians advanced “like dark waves
of the sea,” and picquet and post withdrew from the hamlet in the
valley and from the trench and the temple, firing a few random shots as
they retired. Not being accustomed to so gentle a reception the enemy
became suspicious and advanced very cautiously toward the temple. Here
they seemed inclined to halt, and a few Japanese skirmishers were sent
forward to discover their position. When day broke the Russians were in
possession of the Western slopes, ridges and valleys of Mou-tien-ling;
their right wing rested on a broad hill eight hundred yards from the
Japanese trenches below the summit of the Pass: on their right rear was
a plantation filled with riflemen; their left flank occupied a trench
on a hill fronting the summit, while their centre held the ridge about
the temple. In the V-shaped valley were more troops who had marched
by the road South of the Pass and in front of the white tower--three
thousand five hundred yards away on the Liao-yang road--was posted a
field battery of eight guns. Seven Russian regiments or nearly thirty
thousand fighting men were engaged, for the attack was not confined
to Mou-tien-ling but covered a front of fifteen miles. Three Japanese
regiments and one field battery held the Pass. Their left wing was
secure, close to it lay a division, but the right was weak and might
have suffered but for the magnificent courage of a single company at an
isolated post six or seven miles to the North.
The dispositions were made under cover of night, and at dawn the two
forces confronted each other across a steep and narrow valley. Though
the mist still shrouded the mountain the fight began. At twenty minutes
before five o’clock a steady fusilade was opened from both sides. The
road from the temple to the crest has a gradual ascent, and on one side
the ground rises to a height of two or three feet. Under this cover a
few daring Russians pressed forward but they could not hope to reach
the summit. The bend in the path was quickly strewn with dead. And now
was approaching the moment for energetic action. The Russian guns must
remain silent; they could do nothing without endangering their comrades
in front. The Japanese were anxious not to unmask their artillery too
early in the encounter, for they had on the crest only one battery of
field guns. Soon after six o’clock this caution was laid aside, and
the Japanese guns began to speak. The air was now clear, and below the
guns, at a range of fifteen hundred yards, lay a splendid target--the
enemy massed in the V-shaped valley. A hail of shrapnel tore gaps in
the close ranks and strewed the valley with dead and dying. To this
destructive bombardment was added the distant fire of a battalion of
rifles on the extreme right.
Notwithstanding these losses in the valley the Russians were secure
on the ridge about the temple, and there appeared no reason why they
should not remain there until turned out by the bayonet. Their right
was pushed well forward in trench and wood, from which the Japanese
advance could be enfiladed and taken in the rear; their left was
strongly posted in a trench commanding the steep decline down which the
Japanese must come from the right, and their centre had the shelter of
the solidly built temple, with a compound surrounded by a high stone
wall. Any attempt on the part of the Japanese to rush the position
must have been attended with great loss, and might easily have proved
disastrous. That General Nishi fully realised the danger was shown by
the rapidity with which the reinforcements were hurried forward.
At nine o’clock the enemy began to retire. The cause of this unexpected
determination to abandon an obvious advantage was obscure. It might
have been due to the action of a reconnoitring party from the division
on our left. At any rate the story was that on the morning of the 17th
a patrol from our left encountered a body of Russians, and was driven
back. Returning with one battalion and a battery they renewed the
combat and put the Russians to flight. Not content with this success,
the commander of the force resolved to push forward in the direction
of Mou-tien-ling, whence he heard heavy firing. Having faith in the
old maxim of “marching to the cannon,” he abandoned the road, led his
battalion over the mountains and suddenly appeared in the rear of the
Russians, about three miles beyond To-wan.
General Keller, who was in command, may have imagined that this was a
counter attack on his right flank, and that his line of retreat was
seriously menaced. Whatever the cause the result was before us when we
arrived at Mou-tien-ling.
The retirement began on the left, the men falling back steadily to the
shelter of the plantation. Hard upon their heels came the Japanese,
firing into the scrub and young timber, out of which flew thick and
fast the bullets of the hidden foe. Twice the pursuers tried to
penetrate the wood, and twice they fell back. It was impossible to
take aim, for though the trees and undergrowth were not strong enough
to afford cover they were dense enough for concealment. When at last
the Japanese succeeded in entering, the greater part of the enemy had
descended into the valley and were taking up a position on the right to
cover the retirement of the centre. A few, however, remained, and these
the Japanese officer invited by a gesture to lay down their arms and
surrender. Five immediately dropped on their knees and fired, without
effect. So the combat in the wood was renewed, and as we passed
through we saw many a grim evidence of the struggle. The centre retired
slowly and in good order, covered by a flanking fire from the hills on
the left. A small rear guard remained at the temple, around which lay
several dead and wounded. Left and centre were now in retreat, taking
up positions from which they checked any disposition on the part of the
Japanese to come to close quarters.
In the plantation near the shrine, and on the conical hill, the
Russians remained for some time, but they made no attempt to recover
the lost ground. Meanwhile, the Russian right had withdrawn from the
slopes to the crests of the hills north of the temple, whence they
opened a cross fire upon the pursuit before they streamed away into the
valley and the Liao-yang road. A fine target they afforded on the green
hill side, but the Japanese guns were silent. Hour after hour went by
as we followed the firing line and watched the slow and deliberate
retirement of the enemy. A strong force had secured the hills close to
the entrance of the valley on the North, and here they remained firing
volley after volley whenever a forward movement was threatened by the
Japanese. One battalion that ventured too far into the valley tempted
the Russian gunners to open fire, and a dozen soldiers were quickly
stretched on the grass by one shell. Another battalion pressed along
the South slope toward the mouth of the valley, but could not descend
without exposing itself to a ruthless fusilade.
Thus the position remained until late in the afternoon. From the trench
in front of the shrine, and from the conical hill we saw the enemy in
retreat toward To-wan. A long line of ambulance wagons stretched beyond
the white tower; behind them marched infantry and cavalry in close
order; and in the rear waited a strong force of infantry and cavalry
with half a battery. They were guarding the exit from the valley along
which strolled an occasional soldier with a gait as leisurely and a
manner as indifferent as though these were manœuvres instead of war. At
any sign of advance by the Japanese, the infantry at the entrance to
the valley formed up to oppose them, and the guns were unlimbered and
trained. This sufficed; the Japanese were not strong enough to force an
attack home. Here was the moment when one realised the importance of
horse artillery. A single battery well handled would have turned this
deliberate retirement into a stampede. The pursuit was not pressed, and
the army of General Keller drew off with a final cannonade directed
against our right.
Away on our right flank was enacted a dramatic episode that might
have been a tragedy. In order to avoid the Pass the Russians had made
a road which sweeps round the North spur of the mountain, following
the plain from a point near Lien-chen-kwan to the road leading to
Am-ping. By this way came a force of the enemy. At a point six miles
north of Mou-tien-ling they met a Japanese outpost of one company.
Though greatly outnumbered, the outpost realising the importance of
its position, withstood the onslaught. Hemmed in by six companies they
fought as Japanese soldiers always fight--with the coolness and skill
of veterans, and the courage of fanatics. Closer and closer drew the
enemy until the struggle was almost hand to hand. Numbers could not
avail against courage so desperate. The Russians retreated, leaving
their dead and wounded, and our right flank was safe. But the cost was
great to this gallant company. All the officers were killed or wounded,
and of the rank and file twenty were killed and forty-five wounded.
There was a moment when the position on our left flank in the Pass
looked not less critical, for the enemy came within eight hundred yards
and had good cover. But reinforcements arrived and that interval was
soon a glacis of bullets across which no troops, however desperate,
could have passed.
It is not easy to understand this repeated effort to capture a position
which was abandoned without firing a shot. The explanation has been
offered that Mou-tien-ling was evacuated without the knowledge
of General Kuropatkin and on the rumour that two divisions were
threatening to outflank the position. A more probable explanation is
that General Kuropatkin, finding it necessary to withdraw his force
from the Liao-tung Peninsula, and to fall back on Liao-yang, determined
to recover the Pass, in the hope of delaying the advance of General
Kuroki, who was seeking to effect a junction with General Oku in front
of Liao-yang.
Chapter XXIII
ASSAULT ON CHAOTOA.
At Chaotoa the Russians had a position of the highest strategic
importance, from which they could threaten the advance of our right
wing upon Liao-yang or Mukden. Bridge Head--as it was called--was
also a barrier against the junction of our division--an armed point
thrust between our centre and our right flank that an enterprising
enemy might use to arrest any forward movement or in another attack
on Mou-tien-ling. The necessity of removing this menace became urgent
after the second attempt to recover the Pass, and the task was
undertaken by the force whose head quarters were at Saimaki. Chaotoa is
twenty miles north of Lien-chen-kwan, but in order to reach it safely
we must retrace our steps toward Feng-hoang-cheng and strike North-east
beyond the watershed. Leaving Saimaki on the right the road traverses
a mountainous country and in fifty miles crosses the river at a score
of places. By a rapid ascent we reach the watershed of the Eastern
range--a lofty eminence whence the eye wanders over a heaving ocean
of mountain and valley, clothed in many shaded greens of ripening
maize and cotton and indigo. As you draw near to the Tai-tsu river you
enter a long defile through which flows a stream, and at the western
end of the defile rises Chaotoa. The strength of the position is at
once apparent. Its precipitous front is washed by a tributary river
which flows North to join the valley stream and turning West empties
its waters into the broad flood of the Tai-tsu beyond Am-ping. In the
angle of the meeting of the waters was the enemy’s fortified position.
Their front was a sheer precipice with the deep river below; their left
flank sloped gently down to the valley stream beyond which was a plain
stretching to the Northern heights, and their right wing was defended
by hills. From this secure angle the Russian guns commanded the valley
and road: approach on their left was impossible without scaling heights
beyond which runs the deep broad river Tai-tsu.
[Illustration: Japanese Ambulance Party, Chaotoa.]
Chaotoa had been chosen as a defensive position some weeks before.
Trenches and gun emplacements had been made and had been abandoned. But
when General Kuropatkin decided to attack Mou-tien-ling a second time,
Chaotoa came once more into favour, and two brigades with twenty-four
field guns, eight mountain guns and a regiment of cavalry were sent to
re-occupy the place. Their first duty was to construct new trenches
and gun emplacements. The lines of trenches followed the contour of
the ridge, covering front and flanks save on the left slope by which
the united streams flow Westward. The right flank resting on hills was
thrown back toward the river and the gun positions dominated road and
valley, one battery being posted at the right centre. This was the
strength and situation of the enemy for several days previous to the
assault on Mou-tien-ling upon the 17th of July. But they were not to
remain long in uninterrupted possession. On the morning of the 17th,
the Japanese began their advance. One thousand Cossacks appeared on
their flank to the North-west of Saimaki and sought to arrest the
movement. But cavalry that must keep to the roads is of little use
except for reconnoitring and the Japanese had ceased to hold the
Cossack in much respect. The Russians were easily persuaded to retire,
and the only result of this demonstration of weakness was that one
battalion, instead of three battalions as was originally intended,
remained near Saimaki to guard our communications.
On the afternoon of the 18th, the advance guard of the Japanese
entered the valley before Chaotoa. The road winds between ranges of
hills following the course of the river whose banks are dotted with
peaceful homesteads and are vividly green with the ripening crops. As
it approaches Chaotoa the valley opens out to the South and West into a
cultivated plain backed by hills, and bounded by the stream which flows
along the front of the enemy’s position. Russian patrols and pickets
were in the hills along the South of the valley, but they made no
effort to arrest the advance. Before the steady movement of our troops,
the Russians fell back behind the trenches and guns of Chaotoa and
awaited the inevitable assault.
At noon a Japanese battalion had taken up a position near a village
on the South from which the movements of the enemy could be observed.
Clouds of dust indicated that they were withdrawing their heavy baggage
to a safe distance; soldiers retired from the trenches, and a wild
fear seized the Japanese that the enemy were about to escape without a
fight. Orders were given to prepare for the pursuit, and the battalion
was about to leave the village when a mounted officer was seen to ride
away, and presently the Russian troops re-ascended the slope and lined
the trenches. At half past four in the afternoon the enemy opened on
the village with sixteen guns and did considerable damage, for the
Japanese mountain batteries had not arrived.
From the valley the position looked unassailable save by a frontal
attack against an entrenched precipice--an assault from which even the
votaries of frontal attacks would shrink. But the Japanese are not
easily deterred by appearances; they hold fast to the sound doctrine
that every position, however strong, has its weak point, and that the
first duty of a commander is to discover that weakness. So the day
passed in desultory fighting and at night the real preparations were
made. Among military experts in Europe there is a tradition that
the Japanese avoid movements in the night. It is the part of wisdom
to prefer the light; yet this theory, like many more affecting the
Japanese, will bear revision. Under cover of darkness General Inouye
made his disposition for the assault on the morrow. His command
consisted of three infantry regiments, five mountain batteries and some
cavalry. Two regiments were moved forward to the front of Chaotoa. They
lay in the maize fields hidden from view by the broad green leaves of
the rising corn and spent the night in making breastworks. This front
line stretched from the North side of the valley across the stream and
extended over the plain on the enemy’s front and right. The Japanese
right flank was within 900 mètres from the Russian trenches and their
left was only 1,200 mètres distant. Before them were the deep river and
the precipitous side of Chaotoa. One regiment, commanded by Colonel
Hiraoka, who was the Japanese _attaché_ in the Boer war, remained
in reserve for a most important mission.
Night came, and the shadows stole up the hills, leaving the valley in
darkness. A strange stillness filled the air with foreboding. The moon
rose and flooded the hills with light, but revealed no sign of the
approaching conflict. Yet, in the corn fields below, thousands of khaki
clad men burrowed like moles. The enemy must have been conscious of
their presence, for they opened a cannonade that continued at intervals
through the night. From the trenches also came rifle fire, and twice
in the darkness a small force advanced to dispute the passage of the
river. They brought with them drums and trumpets. Could it be that the
Russians had adopted Chinese methods of warfare, and hoped to scare
the enemy with discord, or did they imagine that they might delude the
Japanese into belief that they were an army on the march? The musicians
left some of their instruments on the field. But from the corn fields
came no response. Bullets whistled among the green stalks, carrying
death and wounds in sharp swift notes to two hundred and eighty unseen
men, but not a sound or a sign was given. On the left, especially, our
casualties were heavy, for the line of infantry was within decisive
range. At last day dawned, and the hills awoke. Two mountain batteries
had been carried to the crest of a hill commanding the Russian position
from the East at a distance of 3,480 mètres; three other mountain
batteries were posted on the North bank of the stream, about half way
down the valley; they were in the shadow of a temple, 2,800 mètres
from the enemy. The Russians had no difficulty in locating the first
artillery position, but of the second they remained long in ignorance.
The four hundred shells they directed against it fell on a hill upon
the opposite bank of the stream where there was neither gun nor
rifle. When they discovered the mistake their range was deadly in its
accuracy, for it had doubtless been carefully measured, but there were
defects in the Russian fuses that rendered their shells often harmless.
While the artillery duel was in progress the Japanese were launching
a bolt more deadly than the shells of their mountain guns. I have
spoken of a weak point in the Russian position. That weakness was on
the right, where the hills appeared to afford a natural defence. But
hills are dangerous things unless well guarded, and the Russians had
not learned the lesson of turning movements. Soon after daybreak there
came from the rear of our position at the Eastern end of the valley a
regiment of brave and determined men. They had before them a long and
difficult march, and at the end of the journey a desperate task to
perform. Their leader was a soldier who had learned some useful lessons
in South Africa, for Colonel Hiraoka did not believe that military
science began and ended with the Franco-German War. He led his regiment
into the mountains and vanished from our view. Meanwhile, the men in
the cornfields waited long and anxiously. Already they had observed
symptoms of uneasiness on the part of the Russians, and feared that
they might escape before the web was spun round them. At one o’clock in
the afternoon some men left the trenches and did not return. Another
hour crept by and the Russian guns were withdrawn. It was obvious that
the enemy suspected some deep laid scheme and was making ready to
depart. General Inouye watched anxiously from the gun position in the
valley, and his glance was fixed on the hills to his left. Moments went
by, and half an hour seemed an age.
At last the signal! from the Russian trenches on the right came volley
after volley hurtling over the plain. The leaden hail swept across
the fields, and the corn stalks snapped under the hurricane like the
cracking of a myriad whips. This sudden storm was directed against the
defile beyond the plain where the head of Colonel Hiraoka’s regiment
appeared--appeared and vanished again to hurl itself on the right
flank of the Russians. In seven hours they had marched across nineteen
miles of trackless mountains, and climbed three steep ranges under a
blazing sun. Their arrival was well timed; had they been half-an-hour
later they would have failed in their mission. Two companies from the
force near Lien-cheng-kwan had hurried forward to meet them, and were
fortunate in effecting a junction. For a second or two they stood
out against the sky--a dark extended line advancing rapidly under a
heavy fire. On they swept with a cheer! The mountain batteries in the
valley--no longer having to face the superior range and weight of the
Russian guns--moved forward to their aid and hurled shrapnel into the
position. For nearly an hour the fight went on with fury; but not for
a moment did the regiment waver or loosen its grip on the enemy. Their
losses were heavy, and their leader fell mortally wounded, yet they
held fast, and the victory was theirs. With a shout that rang like
a trumpet among the echoing hills up sprang the fighting line from
the cornfields; each maize stalk became an armed man. Into the river
they rushed. The waters were deep and the current was strong, yet
in they sprang, holding their rifles aloft. Up to their necks they
were, and only one man was drowned. Under cover of the precipice they
darted toward the exposed flank of the Russians. Before this desperate
onslaught the shaken enemy could not stand. They fled down the slope,
and, massing near a plantation, made ready for flight. But their
retirement was not so orderly and deliberate as at Mou-tien-ling. The
guns opened and they bolted like hares.
To complete their discomfiture two companies and one section had scaled
the heights on the North, and, hurrying West, suddenly appeared among
the hills on the Russian flank. The enemy were now under rifle fire
from three sides and did not stop to arrange the order of their going.
The flight spread North and West, and at a quarter past five o’clock
in the afternoon the flag of the Rising Sun floated over Chaotoa and
one hundred and fifty Russians dead. Sixty-five prisoners were taken of
whom thirty-three were unwounded. Many wounded were carried from the
field early in the day when the fight was practically suspended. Among
the spoil were 215 rifles, 17,878 rounds of ammunition, three caisons,
152 shells, 26 tents, seven drums and four trumpets. The Japanese
casualties were 523--two officers and seventy men killed, sixteen
officers and 435 men wounded. The Japanese guns fired 440 common shells
and 2,500 shrapnel shells.
The capture of Chaotoa was a brilliant exploit, and must be accepted
as another proof of the immense superiority of the Japanese infantry.
The Russian troops were from Europe; they outnumbered their assailants
by nearly two to one; their twenty-four field guns were opposed to
mountain batteries; their position was strong by nature and art, and
much depended on their retention of Chaotoa. The flanking movements
were splendidly executed; and the one regret was that Colonel Hiraoka
did not live to reap the reward of his victory.
Chapter XXIV
THE ADVANCE ON LIAO-YANG.
A GENERAL ACTION.
By the light of the moon we mounted our horses and took the road
once more to Mou-tien-ling. The valley lay before us folded in the
death-like slumber that precedes the dawn. Against the opalescent sky
the mountains were dark shadows, and in the pearly mist willow and
birch took the feathery shape of palm. There was a brooding expectancy
about the scene that worked strongly on the imagination. Our mood was
attuned to the mystery of the night and we rode on in silence. Twelve
hours before we were looking across the graves of wasted days. For a
whole month we had camped in the squalid hamlet of Lien-chen-kwan and
counted ourselves among its oldest habitants. When the Japanese army
halts it halts with an air of permanence. The place is swept, houses
are cleaned, bridges are built, roads made and repaired, store houses
erected, trenches dug and earthworks constructed. You feel that
you are settled for life, and are beginning to reconcile yourself to
irresistable fate when, presto! the order comes to march.
[Illustration: Captured Russian Guns.]
“Military _attachés_ and foreign correspondents will assemble at
Head-Quarters at three o’clock in the morning.” Nothing more was said,
but we knew that it meant another step in our deliberate progress to
Liao-yang. How changed was the scene from that of two weeks before.
Then the road swarmed with armed men hurrying to the front; horses and
guns swept onward in a roaring cataract and the glowing hills echoed
with the thunders of war. Now we were a solitary troop of horsemen
riding through a deserted valley, whither and with what purpose we knew
not. Yet the breathless quiet and the dimness of the enfolding mist
were filled with vague portents that touched deeper chords than those
vibrated by the tumult of battle. We were conscious of the brooding
presence of some mighty force which would appear and change earth and
sky like a tornado, leaving death and destruction in its path.
For many days the storm clouds had been gathering on the Northern and
Western horizons. Port Arthur was struggling in a deadly embrace; the
army of the Peninsula was tightening its grip upon the enemy, and we
were slowly drawing near to the door through which he must escape. In
spite of lyrical outbursts on the courage and patriotism of the Russian
soldier, despite plans devised by idle hands in distant countries,
in face of hypotheses about what must happen in this and that
circumstance, there was only one course open to General Kuropatkin.
He must get away as quickly as possible from a situation that seemed
without meaning and must end in disaster. If he could not make up his
mind to escape, then the Japanese must help him. In their own practical
and decisive manner they must show the Russian commander how imminent
was the danger menacing his front and flank and rear, on the road
between Hai-cheng and Liao-yang. With that object--and incidentally in
the hope of saving the Russians from the necessity of continuing an
apparently hopeless contest--the order was given for a general attack
on Sunday the 31st of July.
Military historians are agreed that of all operations the most
difficult and hazardous is that which demands simultaneous action by
isolated and widely separated bodies of troops. The Japanese, however,
are of opinion that the axioms of war are not axioms till they have
been proved upon their own persons. Accordingly, with the aid of the
telegraph and the telephone, and with confidence born of an unbroken
series of victories, they made this concerted attack at three points
on a front of sixty miles and added another triumph to their record.
The force moving from the South met with no opposition and entered
Hai-cheng, while the army landed at Takushan, and operating between
the armies of the Peninsula and the East struck the enemy’s retreating
flank and left its mark upon it.
General Kuroki’s part in these operations was more difficult. In front
of him was a force superior to his own, with guns of greater range
and calibre, strongly entrenched in mountainous country, directed by
General Kuropatkin himself, and animated by the knowledge that upon its
valour and determination rested the safe deliverance of the Russian
army in Manchuria. To those who judge the strength of armies by their
masses the task assigned to the First Army seemed hazardous. But,
as in mechanics, the Japanese calculate the strength or momentum of
their armies by their mass multiplied by their velocity--that is by
the spirit of the troops and their desire to fight. This factor is of
greater value than battalions, for men who are as eager to fight as the
Japanese, always put themselves in the most advantageous position for
fighting. It was therefore without any fear of the issue that General
Kuroki made his preparations for the attack.
The position of the enemy on the last day of July extended over a
distance of twenty-seven miles. Their left flank was at Yu-shu-ling,
East of Liao-yang, facing Chaotoa, which was wrested from them on
July 19th; their centre was at Tien-shu-tien, opposite Mou-tien-ling
and their right wing at Yan-shu-ling, five miles to the South-west
of the Pass. The whole region occupied by the Russians was like a
field over which a gigantic plough had passed, leaving mountainous
furrows with abrupt slopes and narrow valleys. The Japanese right was
at Chaotoa, twenty miles from Mou-tien-ling, and its orders were to
capture Yu-shu-ling; the left at Han-cha-put-su, seven miles South-west
of Mou-tien-ling, was to take Yan-shu-ling, while the centre at
Mou-tien-ling was to engage the enemy at Tien-shu-tien with a view to
assist the flanking movements. The general direction of these combined
attacks was toward Liao-yang, upon which the Russians were reported to
be retiring from Hai-cheng.
Nature must have some of the martial spirit in her, for she has erected
many ramparts in Manchuria. Yu-shu-ling is one of them. Situated on the
Sai, a broad deep river, with a tributary stream flowing in front, and
flanked by precipieces, Yu-shu-ling seemed an impregnable position.
Early on Sunday morning a detachment from our right was sent to meet
the enemy, who were reported to be advancing in force down the Mukden
road. The Russians had doubtless heard rumours of our movement, and
were preparing to deliver a counter attack on our flank, about which
two thousand of their cavalry and infantry were hovering. This attack
was speedily repulsed, and the main body of the Japanese, dividing
into two, moved Westward, driving in the outposts. At daybreak they
found themselves in front of the main body of the Russians posted on
the heights to the West of Yu-shu-ling. The enemy’s line faced East,
and two thousand mètres before it was a strong post. Recognising that
a frontal attack was impracticable, the Japanese contented themselves
with holding the Russian front. Meanwhile the second force, moving
from Chau-to-po-su, South of Chau-tow, made its way toward Penlin, a
Pass in the range between Chau-tow and Yu-shu-ling. At Penlin were two
Russian regiments whom the Japanese drove out after a sharp contest. So
far the fighting had been devoid of unusual incident, and neither side
appeared to have gained any material advantage. But a serious disaster
was threatening the enemy; one of those unexpected blows that shake the
nerves of men and leave them powerless against fate.
To the assistance of our right wing and to make some appearance of
contact with the centre, there had been despatched from Gebato,
North-east of Mou-tien-ling, a small force of infantry. Marching
North-west they came to the Pass of Cho-bai-rai which is South of
Penlin. At that moment three Russian battalions appeared, moving up the
slopes of the Pass. Each side saw at a glance that whoever gained the
Pass held the other in the hollow of his hand. The Japanese won the
race, and seizing the crest poured volley after volley into the broken
ranks of the enemy.
The attack on our left flank was not so successful. The enemy occupied
a range of heights West and South of Mou-tien-ling. Their right
flank was near Sui-cha-pu-zo facing South, their right near To-wan
fronting East, and their centre overlooked the cornfields South of
Mou-tien-ling. Upon these lofty and steep hills they had posted
forty-four field guns, eighteen on the left, sixteen in the centre and
ten on the right. Miles of roads had been made up the mountain sides
and along the summits; gun emplacements had been constructed to sweep
the valley, to search the Pass and to command the approach from the
South-east, and the hills were lined with tiers of trenches carefully
hidden under green branches.
Against this formidable array of quick firing guns which carry a shell
weighing fifteen pounds, our left flank had five batteries of field
guns and one battery of mountain guns firing eleven pound shells. But,
owing to the difficult character of the country, they were unable to
bring into action more than the mountain battery and thirteen field
guns. Scouting parties had been sent out on the previous night to
find positions for the artillery, and through the dark hours gunners
and sappers aided by three battalions of infantry were making and
repairing roads and constructing emplacements. Their labours, however,
could not overcome the natural obstacles, and the use of double teams
failed to get all the guns into position. Soon after midnight on July
30th, a detachment was sent to threaten the right rear of the enemy,
and succeeded in approaching the position despite a counter attack
which was repulsed with loss. At one o’clock in the morning began the
general advance of our left, and at seven both infantry and artillery
were engaged. The movement was mainly directed against the right flank
upon which our guns made no impression, although before noon nine guns
had fired a thousand shells at a range of 3,765 yards. Ammunition
ran short, for it was impossible to get the wagons up the slopes and
the shells had to be carried by hand. The Russian gunners displayed
unwonted skill and energy; their aim was often deadly in its accuracy
and drove our men to cover time after time; their guns were served with
wonderful rapidity and their superior weight and range were only too
apparent.
Nor did the infantry of the left fare much better. They were called
upon to carry by assault a position from which most troops would have
recoiled. For the first time the Russian trenches were invisible to
the naked eye. Evidently they had taken counsel from disaster and have
adopted that concealment which is the first principle of war with
repeating rifles and smokeless powder. Near Sui-cha-pu-zo, almost at
the centre of the enemy’s right flank, one regiment was checked before
eight o’clock, and the first and second officers in command were
wounded. Another regiment fought hard until eleven o’clock, and three
companies, having lost their commanders, succeeded in establishing
themselves within two thousand mètres of the enemy. Here they remained,
unable to advance in face of the heavy rifle and artillery fire. At
noon our left was held in check and the enemy remained secure in all
their positions about Yans-huling.
It was clear that if we were to escape from this _impasse_ our
centre must emerge from the passive _rôle_ assigned to it in the
plan of operations. Since dawn we had watched for signs of activity
in the Pass. Hitherto the only part we had taken in the advance was
to seize an eminence on the Western front. At eleven o’clock on the
night of the 30th, a company of infantry had dislodged the enemy from
this position. The hill was steep and the Russians defended themselves
with stones. An avalanche of rocks swept the assailants off their feet
and did serious damage. The commander of the company was wounded as he
led his men up the slope: several were killed and more were severely
disabled--in all the Japanese had twenty-one casualties before they
drove the enemy from the hill at one o’clock in the morning.
Hour after hour went by and from Mou-tien-ling came no sign of the
presence of an army. The sun stole slowly above the horizon, scattering
the morning mist and flooding the green slopes with intense light. Away
in the West, beyond the white tower that rose like a lighthouse from
a low spur on the Pekin road, were small parties of Russian horsemen.
Their white tunics were distinctly visible and distinguished them from
a few Chinese who flitted about the entrance to the Pass as though
uncertain on which side lay safety.
From Mou-tien-ling the Pekin road runs West past the white tower to the
village of To-wan and divided the Russian position. At right angles
to it, before you come to the tower, is another road, bounded on the
East by the steep slope of the Pass and on the West by a range of lofty
hills. Between these boundaries stretches a broad cultivated valley
watered by a shallow stream, on the West bank of which is situated the
village of Tien-shu-tien. In these hills lay the enemy strongly
entrenched and protected by two gun positions, one of which was between
two conical peaks on a razor-like ridge flanked by a small wood.
[Illustration: Japanese Funeral Service.]
[Illustration: The Tower at To-wan.]
Six batteries were on our front--four on the ridge overlooking the
valley and the village of Tien-shu-tien, and two on the slope to the
south of the Pass commanding the Pekin road and the hills on either
side. On the slopes behind the guns reclined soldiers waiting the order
to rise and advance. The artillery duel on our left began at seven
o’clock, and continued with varying degrees of intensity until noon.
For four hours the hills and valleys re-echoed with the long rolling
thunder of guns; ridge and slope gave forth clouds of white and brown
smoke as if they had suddenly become active volcanoes; and from the
blue sky descended tiny white clouds with hearts of flame from which
dated a hail of lead. Now and then you could hear the music of the
shrapnel like the swish of a mighty rod across the heavens, dying away
to the lazy humming of bees. It is fascinating music, though, like the
song of the Syren, deadly. To the mere observer, however experienced,
an artillery duel affords ample scope for speculation. When a hundred
guns are in action over a wide front no eye and no ear can judge either
the direction or the result with any approach to certainty. More than
one of the Russian gun positions remained undiscovered throughout the
day, and our own gun position South of the Pass never drew a shot from
the enemy.
Shortly after noon the centre burst into activity. The four batteries
on the ridge to our right opened with energy upon the enemy’s position
above Tien-shu-tien, while the two batteries on our left turned their
attention to the hills South of Tow-an. New life had come into the
fight, and through the burning air screamed a hundred shells. The
ridge in front of the Pass smoked and flamed, while the cone-like
peaks beyond the valley seemed to spring from a burning lake. Again
the Russian gunners displayed their skill, and the range of their
artillery. Into the batteries on our right burst shell upon shell,
scattering the gunners and sending the infantry to closer cover down
the slope. The colonel in command of our artillery was slightly
wounded, and several men were killed and disabled. In vain our gunners
strove to locate some of the hidden batteries that were most active,
and in vain they endeavoured to silence those which were unmasked.
The enemy’s guns were skilfully posted, and the gunners had taken the
precaution to peel some of the trees and to measure the ranges on our
front. Hence the accuracy with which they searched our positions,
though they did no damage to the guns and put none out of action.
I must now return to our left wing, where the result of this activity
in the centre was anxiously awaited. The infantry had been checked all
along the line, though the men stuck bravely to their positions in
front of the hidden trenches, and kept well under cover.
At noon the order was given for our left to advance, and after a heroic
effort one regiment reached the foot of a wooded hill on which the
enemy had three tiers of trenches. Beyond this point they could not go,
for the slope was swept with a sheet of lead. Here they lay panting
from their great exertions, and from the heat of the day. The sun beat
down upon them with pitiless intensity; the ground was like an oven;
the air vibrated with waves of heat like a mirage in the desert. Many
were already suffering from sun stroke and heat apoplexy. The men were
enduring all the torments of thirst, their lips were dry and cracked;
their tongues were hard and parched, and their eyes were scorched with
the glare. And to add to their agony there ran in front of them a
brook, clear and cold from the mountains.
I have seen men and horses stampede at sight of the Nile and throw
themselves into the yellow flood, and I have watched soldiers quench
their thirst amid a hail of bullets. The risk was great, but the need
was greater, and across the deadly space dashed the Japanese. Plunging
their heads into the brook they cooled their parched throats and
fevered skins, and came back to cover. Another regiment had worked its
way painfully and with loss to a position within six or seven hundred
yards from a ridge, the approach to which was like a glacis. On the
ridge were five hundred riflemen. They had no trench, yet they held a
whole regiment beyond that “long deadly zone of horizontal fire which
is the most powerful factor in battle.” This small body of Russians
was composed of determined men; they took steady and careful aim; the
ground was favourable, and the result was that which we so often saw
in South Africa. When a Japanese raised his head it was to receive a
bullet; when an officer showed himself it was to have a volley. Against
such a fire mere masses could not avail.
With European troops it is agreed that fifteen per cent. of casualties
will check an advance. A greater percentage would be needed to stop
Japanese infantry, but even to their reckless courage there is a limit
and that limit was reached on our left. The casualties were slowly
mounting up. Among the officers slain was Lieut. Shirasawa, who played
a brilliant part in the attack on Hamatan on May 1st, leading his
section up the hill to capture the Russians, and Sub-Lieut. Kiroke,
member of a noble house, who died crying: “Long live the Emperor!”
Through the long hot hours the fight went on and still no signs of
advance. From an eminence near the Temple in the Pass General Kuroki
and his Staff, with whom was General Sir Ian Hamilton, looked on and
received the reports of orderlies and gallopers. And always the sky was
flecked with tiny white clouds and the hills in front spurted brown
dust and clouds of smoke. Again the Russian gunners poured a quick fire
of shrapnel into the batteries and drove the Japanese artillery-men to
shelter.
It was manifest that our shrapnel could not affect the enemy’s
positions: the range of the fuse was too short. Shrapnel was
accordingly abandoned for common shell, which has a longer range, and
once more we witnessed the destructive effect of the high explosive
that Japan has invented for the field gun.
The moment had arrived for decisive action. The centre must push
forward and relieve the pressure on the left. At five o’clock the
order was given and from behind the guns rose the ranks of the
infantry. Descending the ridge they crossed the shallow stream before
Tien-shu-tien and moved up the green slopes toward the enemy’s
position. As they advanced they opened out into two lines of extended
order, so as to form two sides of a triangle. From a pyramid-shaped
hill to the South of the white tower sprang another battalion. All
day they had lain like brown stones on the brown slope--hidden from
the enemy’s view yet well within range of their guns. With a shout
they descended into the valley, crossed the road, and, scaling a hill,
threatened the right of the position at To-wan. The left was already
menaced by the advance from the Pass through Tien-shu-tien. The Russian
guns no longer spoke: they had begun to descend the hills in haste. The
position was at our mercy, and the left was free to move. But caution
was still necessary, for on a wooded hill commanding the advance stood
a resolute body of men who seemed to have charmed lives, neither rifles
nor plunging fire of shells could drive them from their trenches until
they saw that the situation was indeed hopeless. Then only did they
retire and join their comrades on the way to Liao-yang.
The battle was ended and once more victory was with the Japanese.
Yan-shu-ling, Tien-shu-tien and Yu-shu-ling--all the objectives were in
our hands. The enemy still held a Pass five miles North, and our left
flank bivouacked near in the hope of attacking next morning. But in the
night the Russians withdrew and we halted at To-wan and Tien-shu-tien.
Next day we heard that General Keller, who succeeded to this command
after the passage of the Yalu, had been mortally wounded by a fragment
of a shell while visiting one of the gun positions. Chinese reported
that in the retirement the Russians carried two rich Chinese coffins
from which it was inferred that two officers in high command had been
killed. We also learned that General Kuropatkin was at Am-ping whence
he had directed the operations. Two guns had been abandoned in the
flight, and in the gun emplacements were many live shells. One of the
guns lay on the Pekin road near To-wan. Its story was written on the
upturned limber and the muzzle jammed hard against a tree at the foot
of a steep hill. The gun was coming down the slope when the horses were
shot or scared by rifle fire, and it went crashing down the height
into the road. The breach block had been removed; otherwise the gun
was intact. Another gun had been hurled down a hill and had buried
its muzzle deep into the earth; the breach was open and in it was an
unexploded shell. Of the Russians 6 officers and 506 men were buried
on the field, and 150 prisoners were taken, including the colonel of
the 121st regiment. The Japanese casualties were 861--9 officers and
132 men killed; 33 officers and 687 men wounded.
[Illustration: After the Fight.]
[Illustration: The Red Cross at Work.]
From the presence of General Kuropatkin at Am-ping, and the despatch of
a force down the Mukden road, it may be reasonably concluded that the
Russians intended to deliver a counter attack on our right. No fewer
than twenty-four battalions were directed against that flank which they
hoped to crush by superior numbers. The attempt failed signally owing
to the skill of the Japanese in manœuvring among the mountains and to
the fortunate chance that placed the detachment from our centre in
possession of the cliff under which the enemy was compelled to retire.
On the right and centre the Russians fought well and showed greater
energy and determination. But they were sadly wanting in initiative and
enterprise.
A great soldier would have seized the opportunity when our left was
held in check to deliver a counter attack on our right centre where
there was a manifestly weak point. The distance between our centre
and our right wing was great, and the only defence was a regiment of
cavalry and one battalion in reserve. There appeared a clear opening
for breaking through and turning our whole position. The advantages
of situation, and of artillery were decidedly with the Russians. They
had had weeks in which to prepare roads and emplacements, and their
guns were, for the most part, skilfully placed, though, as usual,
they affected sky-lines, so that their fire was visible. The Japanese
gun positions were not well chosen. This defect was due partly to
the inferior range of their artillery, and partly to the extremely
difficult nature of the country in which they were suddenly called upon
to make selection. They, too, exposed their guns against the sky-line,
not having learned thoroughly the lesson of indirect fire.
Chapter XXV
ATTACK ON YU-SHU-LING.
A DRAMATIC ENCOUNTER.
For dramatic incident, not less than tactical interest, the attack
on Yu-shu-ling--to which reference has been made in describing the
general advance on Liao-yang--is worthy of separate record. The
action which ended disastrously for the Russians brought into relief
the fighting qualities of the two armies, and proved once more that
superior numbers, even when joined with desperate courage and strength
of position, cannot avail against a skilful and determined foe. It
may be urged that the element of chance entered into the victory,
and that had it not been for the arrival of reinforcements from the
centre, the Russians might have remained undisturbed behind the barrier
which nature and military art opposed to the advance from the East.
But chance is always a factor in war, and the greatest general is he
who neglects no occasion for turning it to account. Nor could the
appearance of four battalions on the Russian flank be ascribed solely
to chance. Their presence was designed, their purpose was to threaten
the enemy’s right, and their dramatic success was due to the neglect
of a precaution as obvious as that which placed at the mercy of the
Japanese the sleeping camp on the left wing. Until the occupation of
Mou-tien-ling it might have been contended that in every encounter
with General Kuroki’s army the Russians were inferior in number, and
were fighting in country peculiarly adapted to the soldiers of a
mountainous island. This apology for defeat could be made no longer.
Since that date the enemy had been in greater force; their artillery
had been of greater weight and range and mobility; they had had the
choice of positions, whether for attack or for defence, yet every
engagement, offensive and defensive, showed more clearly their want of
skill in manœuvring, in determination, in enterprise, and initiative.
The absence of these qualities rendered of no avail the courage of the
infantry and the skill of the gunners, whose sole achievement in the
recent action had been to demonstrate that even Japanese soldiers might
be checked by the rifle fire of unshaken infantry properly entrenched.
The attack on Yu-shu-ling was part of an operation that extended as far
South as Hai-cheng, over a front of nearly seventy miles. Its effect
must be judged by the success or failure of the whole movement, the
purpose of which was to harass, if not to prevent, the retreat of the
main army under General Kuropatkin upon Liao-yang and Mukden. Yet, from
a tactical point of view, the attack may be treated as a separate and
an isolated engagement.
On the 19th of July the force composing our right wing drove the enemy
from Chaotoa, twenty miles to the north of Mou-tien-ling, and proceeded
to entrench themselves on the ridge West of this position. The right
was our exposed flank, and General Inouye neglected no precaution to
guard himself against surprise, keeping a vigilant eye on his front,
where the enemy were in force, and on his right flank, about which
hovered a brigade of Cossacks, who formed part of General Renenkampf’s
division. Toward the end of the month the Russians, who had entrenched
on the heights beyond Yu-shu-ling on both sides of the river Tai-tsu,
appeared to be concentrating for attack. Spies reported the arrival
of reinforcements along the Mukden road, and unwonted activity in the
camps about Yu-shu-ling. In order that he might not be taken unawares,
General Inouye advanced his outposts in front of the enemy’s flanks.
On the 28th and 29th of July a company of infantry and a squadron of
cavalry occupied Makura-yama or Pillow Mountain, facing the Russian
position on the north bank of the Tai-tsu, while a detachment of
infantry took possession of the heights of East Penlin, overlooking the
valley on the other side of which was the enemy’s right wing. On the
29th these outposts fell back on the main body entrenched on the range
West of Chaotoa, three Russian battalions having menaced Makura-yama
and a considerable force having appeared on the West and North of East
Penlin. The enemy was also in some strength at Ponchiho, six miles
north of Chaotoa on the road to Mukden, and a fight seemed imminent.
While our right wing was making ready to defend its position the order
came for a general attack along the line from Hai-cheng to Yu-shu-ling.
On the night of the 30th General Inouye disposed his force. The command
of the right was given to General Kigoshi, who had under him six
battalions of infantry, two squadrons of cavalry, one battery of field
guns, and four batteries of mountain guns. On the left was General
Sasaki with five battalions of infantry, one squadron of cavalry and
one mountain battery, and in the centre remained General Inouye with
three and a half battalions of infantry in reserve. Four battalions of
infantry detached from the centre of the main army were to march from
Shamatan, six miles North of Lien-cheng-kwan, to co-operate with the
right wing and to seize the heights of West Penlin--the enemy’s right
flank position. The field of operations covered a mountainous country
enclosed by two rivers, that flow into the Liao-yang river almost at
right angles, and intersected by roads running to Mukden and Am-ping
and Liao-yang. As the range begins here to descend into the plain
about Liao-yang the mountains are not so lofty and precipitous as in
the South and are more suitable for defensive tactics. The Russian
position was well chosen though it had one serious defect, inasmuch as
it was divided by a broad and deep river. According to their habit,
the centre was posted at the junction of two roads so as to give
lateral communications. North of the Tai-tsu river the enemy held the
summit and slope of a range of hills facing East and separated from
the parallel range of Makura-yama by a narrow valley along which is a
road. Here they camped under canvass in the corn fields to the West of
the valley road. South of the Tai-tsu the Russians were entrenched on a
range of hills running North and South and bending Eastward like a bow.
On the left of this position is the road from Chaotoa to Am-ping, and
on each side of the road were guns commanding the approach from the
East as well as the heights of Makura-yama, North of the river. Behind
these artillery positions rose another hill on which was posted a
battery with the same field of fire.
In all, the Russians had four field batteries of thirty-two guns
opposed to one field battery of six guns and five mountain batteries
of inferior weight and range. Behind the enemy’s position, South of
the Tai-tsu, was a broad plain covered with maize crops eight or nine
feet high, bounded on the West by a river, and traversed by the road
to Am-ping, through Lackanlei and Kuchaso. In front was the road from
Penlin to Yu-shu-ling. This road runs along the bottom of a valley,
shut in on the South by hills, and on the East by a ridge which extends
North almost to Yu-shu-ling. East of this ridge is another enclosed
valley sown with maize, and East of that again another ridge, on the
Northern spur of which was the Japanese gun position. Yet another
cultivated valley divided this ridge from the entrenched range which
ran North and South, the right flank overlooking the road to Am-ping
and the river Tai-tsu, and the left flank resting on the road leading
direct to Penlin.
Thus the two armies lay facing each other on the night of July 30th.
At four o’clock on the morning of the next day the force on our right
moved from its camp at Chaotoa, and fording the deep river advanced
rapidly and silently upon Makura-yama. Under cover of a ridge that
zigzags along the North bank of the Tai-tsu the Japanese reached the
foot of the Pillow Mountain, and a battalion crept noiselessly up the
peak. Below them lay the valley, and the slope of the Western hill
dotted with white tents. Roused by the picquets, the Russians sprang
from slumber with the cry “The enemy is upon us!” Men, scantily clad,
ran hither and thither with rifles in their hands. Some were in their
shirts, others in trousers and shirt; all were dazed by the unexpected
attack. Forming in the cornfields two battalions hurried up the hill
and came within ten yards of the crest, when the Japanese appeared and
poured upon them a rain of bullets. The slope was quickly strewn with
dead. Beyond that point advance was impossible. For thirty minutes the
Russians fought hard; then they turned and fled down the hill into the
valley and the cornfields pursued by a hailstorm of lead. Throwing
aside their weapons they took to their heels, leaving tents and carts
and cooking wagons and equipment. Some fled South-west toward Am-ping;
others North-west in the direction of Liao-yang, while some few brave
men rallied and strove to renew the fight. In the valley and among the
ripening corn lay three hundred slain Russian and many wounded. The
camp was a litter of dead horses, rifles, books, papers, letters, great
coats, sacks, cooking utensils, carts--all the paraphernalia of an army
on the march. One thousand and eighteen tents fell into our hands.
The peak of Makura-yama was seized at five o’clock and at ten minutes
to eight the ridge was occupied. Meanwhile the guns on both sides had
opened at a range of between two and three thousand mètres. Little
damage was done, the enemy failing to locate our batteries and firing
in all directions. No sooner, however, did the Japanese infantry appear
on the sky line above Makura-yama than the Russian artillery turned
their attention to that quarter, and at a range of fifteen hundred
mètres kept up a steady cannonade. Our right flank was powerless and
could do nothing more than entrench and await developments. But they
were not long idle. At ten o’clock the enemy appeared on the North-west
of the ridge with the object of taking it from the rear. To meet
this counter attack two companies were despatched from the reserves
at Hoachapaozu--a village between Chaotoa and Yu-shu-ling--together
with a detachment from the rear guard. Fording the river they moved
under cover of the zigzag range of hills and coming into the open
were under the fire of the Russian guns. The officer in command of
the reserves had his horse killed under him and was slightly wounded.
While delivering the counter attack the Russians renewed their effort
to assail the front with artillery and rifle, but the arrival of
reinforcements appeared to damp their ardour, and after a short though
sharp fight the Japanese were left in possession of Makura-yama.
During this long interval the centre and the left were not idle. A
regiment advanced along the main road to Am-ping and drove the enemy
from the Northern extremity of the ridge immediately in front of the
Russian position south of the Tai-tsu. The resistance was feeble, but
beyond that point the Japanese were unable to proceed. Below stretched
a wide open plain dominated by the sheer precipice that guarded the
enemy’s front. To scale the cliff would require wings. Our centre
accordingly determined to await developments elsewhere, and contented
itself with containing the Russian front.
On our left was great activity and early promise of another disaster
to the Russians. The force under General Sasaki left Hoachapaozu at
half past three in the morning and marched South to the heights about
Penlin. This is the name given to mountains that form the East, West
and North boundaries of a triangular plain opening to the South. From
East Penlin General Sasaki saw the Russians erecting earthworks.
Though ignorant of the enemy’s strength and unfamiliar with the
physical features of the country, he resolved to attack. Accordingly he
led his troops across the valley to the foot of a gentle slope dotted
with trees and scrub. Fortunately there were no guns to oppose his
advance, but it was soon discovered that the Russians were in greater
force than had been anticipated, and that the fight would be stubborn.
The enemy were not entrenched, but had for breastwork the ridge of the
hills, immediately below which ran a pathway. Our guns came to the aid
of the infantry which was reinforced by one battalion, and the advance
went on slowly and steadily. Suddenly the extreme right of the Russian
force changed front to meet an unexpected attack from the South-east.
Realising that powerful help was at hand and that the enemy were shaken
by the unexpected menace to their rear, the Japanese pressed forward
with the utmost speed. They raced up the hill shouting “Banzai!” and
found the Russians already in retreat.
In order to explain this diversion on the enemy’s right it is necessary
to recall the fact that four battalions from the main centre were
ordered to co-operate with the right wing at West Penlin. At eight
o’clock in the morning these reinforcements arrived at Cho-bai-rai--an
eminence on the South-west of West Penlin. Hearing the sound of
heavy firing, and realising that the enemy’s front was occupied, the
commander resolved to strike from the rear, and urged his troops
through the Pass along the road to the back of West Penlin. Along this
road the Russians were retreating in great confusion. Precipitous hills
enclose the road along which they hurried like a flock of sheep. No
precaution had been taken to secure these hills in order to cover the
retirement. A Japanese lieutenant, running up the slope, beheld the
enemy in the trap and signalled to his comrades to make haste. Then
began another race for life. The Russians saw the danger and sought
to avert it by seizing the commanding position. Throwing aside great
coats and every impedimenta they strove with every nerve and sinew to
outstrip their competitors in the race. But they were too late. The
Japanese, having dropped their knapsacks, were already lining the cliff
overhanging the road and emptying their rifles into the struggling mass
below.
Shouts of “Banzai!” mingled with the rattle of musketry. It was a scene
of the wildest excitement. For the enemy below there was no escape:
they must run this fiery gauntlet. To attempt any reply with rifles was
impossible, for the Japanese were sheltered by the ledge of the cliff.
In a few moments the road was strewn with the dead and dying. Ambulance
wagons came to pick up the wounded and the Japanese chivalrously
suspended fire though no white flag had been raised. Under cover of
the Red Cross the Russians carried away their wounded, together with
many rifles and great coats. Yet three hundred dead were buried by
the Japanese, whose casualties were not a dozen. Among the wounded was
Lieut. R. Nishii, who was the first to reach the cliff and to signal to
his comrades.
At noon the range from which the enemy had retired was occupied by
the Japanese, and the battalions from the centre went in pursuit, but
were checked by guns stationed at Rihikoku and Kuchazu on the North
Road. At three o’clock the Russian right flank had disappeared, leaving
the centre undisturbed, and the left flank seriously weakened. Later
in the afternoon another attempt was made to drive the Japanese from
Makura-yama. A small force again appeared on the North-west of the
position, but the counter attack no longer had the full support of the
artillery beyond Yu-shu-ling, some of the guns having been withdrawn to
Kuchazu. The attack was a half-hearted affair, and was easily repelled.
Meanwhile, our left flank made strenuous effort to drive the enemy
from their strong position in the centre, and succeeded in capturing
two peaks. But the valley was deep and exposed, and the mountain was
steep. The assault was accordingly put off till to-morrow, and the
victorious Japanese bivouacked in battle array before the last Russian
position. At dawn they arose to renew the encounter, and found the
enemy retiring. Our left flank was the first to discover the movement,
and, hurrying up the heights, saw the Russian infantry streaming along
the road through Laokanlei in the direction of Am-ping.
In this engagement the Russians had 39 battalions of infantry, 32 guns,
2,000 cavalry, two companies of engineers, and three balloons. Their
casualties were over 2,000. 600 bodies were buried on the field, and
more than 200 prisoners were taken. Among the spoils were 800 rifles,
20,000 rounds of rifle ammunition, 400 engineers tools, 1,018 tents,
three cooking carts, six ammunition wagons, 1,400 sacks of clothing and
camp equipment. From the diary of an officer we learned that General
Kuropatkin was at Am-ping on the 23rd and 24th July, and was expected
on the 31st to direct the operations in front of General Kuroki’s
army. The Japanese casualties were 416, of whom fourteen officers were
wounded and two killed.
[Illustration: LIAO-YANG
DRAWN BY A JAPANESE OFFICER.]
Chapter XXVI
THE BATTLE OF LIAO-YANG.
PREPARING THE WAY.
During the last days of August every soldier felt that he was nearing
the end of the first phase of the war, and that a decisive battle
was impending. Three armies were concentrating upon Liao-yang, which
General Kuropatkin had fortified and provisioned to withstand prolonged
assault.
After the fight at Mou-tien-ling General Kuroki halted to complete his
preparations for the advance on Liao-yang. The rainy season, though
unusually short, gave some trouble, and for a time the position of the
First Army was by no means secure. Each division was widely separated
and extended over a broad front. Half the Guards Division was still at
Siou-yen, miles to the left rear, while the Twelfth Division on the
right flank was several miles from the centre and not in touch. This
distribution of the force could not be avoided, for the main road to
Liao-yang is too narrow to permit the simultaneous movement of two
divisions.
General Keller seized this critical moment to deliver his attack
on Mou-tien-ling, but failed owing to the want of energy and
determination. As the month of August drew near Russian activity
increased, and on the 25th of July the Twelfth Division was menaced by
the advance of two infantry divisions and six thousand cavalry, who
were riding from the neighbourhood of Ponchiho.
Deeming it imprudent to await attack in so divided a position, General
Kuroki resolved to become the assailant and to strike the enemy while
their preparations were incomplete. The Guards at Siou-yen were hurried
to Head-quarters, and the lines of communication were swept for men
to strengthen the Twelfth Division on the right. In five days General
Kuroki was ready to make his counter stroke, and To-wan, or the valley
of the White Tower, was captured.
The occupation of this important military position removed the peril
that had long threatened the First Army. The Second Division in the
centre was now free to move to the support of either flank, and to
hold its front with a comparatively small force. At the same time the
right flank near Ponchiho was strengthened by men drawn from the second
reserves, and the road was opened to Liao-yang.
Unfortunately, General Kuroki was not able to take full and immediate
advantage of this improvement in his position. He was only a pawn in
the game. The Central or Fourth Army was not ready to move. It awaited
reinforcements of infantry and artillery to extend the line toward
Hai-cheng, and two weeks were necessary to complete its preparations.
Field Marshal Oyama’s intention was to begin the assault on Liao-yang
on August 18th, but again the rains descended and the movement was
delayed until the 25th. The instructions issued from Grand Head
Quarters were that General Kuroki should attack the enemy on the left
bank of the Tan-ho which flows in front of Am-ping, while the combined
armies of the West assailed the position at Anshantien. The date fixed
for the movement against Anshantien was August 28th, and in order
that the flanking attack might be developed in time, General Kuroki
proceeded on the 26th to sweep the enemy from his front. This was a
most difficult operation. The main force of the Russians was on the
line Am-ping, Shanleishi, Tohi and Shankaen, with its left flank near
Housalien--not an easy position to assail. Its centre near Daitenshi
was naturally strong and had been fortified with earthworks upon which
the enemy had been engaged since the month of May.
The weakness of the Russian position was its extended front and the
comparative smallness of the force with which it was held. Of this
defect General Kuroki was quick to take advantage. Accordingly he gave
orders that both flanks were to be threatened, while a desperate night
assault was delivered against the centre.
The orders issued from the Head Quarters of the First Army are
interesting and instructive:
“Kinchapoatsa,
5 p.m. August 22nd.
(1) “The enemy in front of the First Army is composed of the
IX and XXXI Divisions and the greater part of the III and VI
Divisions. Its line extends from Kosalin through Kampalei and
Kynchorei to Daitenshi and Daisoton. At Ponchiho are a regiment
of infantry, six squadrons of cavalry, and a few guns. At
Liao-yang and on the right bank of the Tai-tsu is a superior
force of the enemy.
(2) “The Second and Fourth Armies expect to deliver their
attack on the position from Anshantien to West Togyoho--eight
kilometres West--and Kami-sekyo on the 28th inst.
(3) “The First Army will attack with its main force in the
direction of Am-ping, and with parts of its force on the
Liao-yang road.
(4) “The Twelfth Division, plus the mixed brigade of the Second
Reserve and minus the mountain battery, will attack in the
direction of Hichihanlei at dawn on the 26th.
(5) “The Second Division, minus one field battery and one
regiment of cavalry and plus the mountain battery of the Twelfth
Division, will attack South-west of Tsuego and Chorei before
dawn on the 26th.
(6) “The Imperial Guards Division, plus one regiment of cavalry
and one battery of field guns, will attack Daitenshi on the
Liao-yang main road at dawn on the 26th.
(7) “The G.O.C. will be found at Santolei after 6 p.m. on the
25th.”
The strength of the Twelfth Division was equal to one and a half
divisions; that of the Second Division was about normal, though half
its artillery and the greater part of its cavalry had been transferred
to the Guards Division. A battery of mountain guns had however been
added to the Second Division, and proved so effective that the Japanese
resolved in future to carry a mountain battery behind the fighting
line. The Guards Division, in addition to the cavalry and guns of the
Second Division, was strengthened by a battery of Russian guns captured
at the Yalu, and had in all ten batteries of field guns. Besides these
forces was the Reserve--whose position was kept secret--under the
direct command of Head Quarters. This reserve--the 29th regiment of the
Second Reserves--was doing garrison duty at Feng-hoang-cheng on the
22nd when orders came that it must hurry to the front. After a forced
march of forty-eight hours the regiment arrived at Tien-sui-tien at
midnight on the 25th and was thrown into the fighting line. No one who
saw them marching to the sound of the guns next morning would have
dreamed that they had just performed so remarkable a feat of endurance.
Such was the force with which General Kuroki succeeded in driving in
the Russian left flank and compelling General Kuropatkin to evacuate
Aushantien and fall back on his last defences about Liao-yang. Let me
attempt to describe as clearly and as concisely as the multiplicity of
details allow, the manner in which this great victory was won.
In the last days of August, the army under General Kuropatkin,
estimated at two hundred thousand fighting men, held three defensive
lines stretching like bows over the hilly country to the South and
East of Liao-yang. The longest bow was drawn to the South of Am-ping
across the Pekin road; the shorter was North of the River Tang, while
the smallest and strongest bow masked Liao-yang from the low hills of
Shou-shan. The defensive works in front of the Pekin road had been
constructed months before, those in the neighbourhood of Am-ping were
begun after our advance from Mou-tien-ling on the 31st of July. The
nature and extent of the defences beyond the Tang-ho were not known
until a few days before the attack on Liao-yang; nor were we sure that
the enemy had entrenched the heights of Sou-shan. Divided into two
main bodies, with strong reserves on the inner lines of defence, the
Russians awaited our advance with the confidence inspired by numbers
and by the presence of General Kuropatkin. Our plan was simple. While
the Armies of the West and South attacked from Anshantien on the road
from Hai-cheng, the Army of the East, under General Kuroki, was to
force the defensive line on the Pekin road and at Am-ping.
Late in the afternoon of August 25th we left Tien-sui-tien--the village
near the foot of Mou-tien-ling Parr, where we had camped for nearly one
month. Our orders were to march with three days’ rations in our saddle
bags and to halt for the night in a glen four miles to the North-west.
We bivouacked among the mealies near a mountain torrent, and rose at
dawn with the consciousness that important events had happened in the
night. Before starting from Tien-sui-tien we were told that no match
was to be struck, no pipe or fire was to be lighted, and that restive
and noisy horses were to be kept in the rear. These precautions could
only portend some desperate enterprise under cover of darkness.
Forcing a path through the tangle of bush that dripped with heavy dew,
we reached the summit of a ridge and looked across the boundless ocean
of bare hills. Away to the right loomed a bold spur in the shadow of
which flowed the Tang-ho. Here the column, which formed our right
flank, was operating, though of its progress we saw no sign and heard
no sound. The heights on our left echoed the thunders of artillery,
telling us that our left flank had forced the Pass of Yang-shu-ling and
was hotly engaged. General Kuroki and his Staff watched from the ridge
to which we had ascended. Across a deep valley on the North ran another
steep ridge upon which stood General Nichi and his Staff. Here was the
centre of our advance.
The Russian line of defence, in front of which we found ourselves, was
strong by nature, and had been improved by art. It stretched across
hills, offering an extensive field of fire, and must be approached
by deep and exposed valleys. One weakness, however, it had, and the
Japanese were not slow to discover it. The line was too long to be
strongly defended, even by the force at General Kuropatkin’s command.
On an extended front the point for attack is the centre, and here
General Kuroki determined to drive in a wedge that would leave the
enemy no choice but to fall back on his second line beyond the river.
Artillery positions not being available owing to the precipitous
character of the country, he resolved upon the hazardous expedient
of a night attack with the bayonet. To ensure the success of such an
enterprise two conditions are essential. The ground over which the
troops are to advance in the darkness must be carefully studied. With
that object many reconnaisances were made, company after company being
sent out to learn the topographical features of the two mountains over
which the assault must pass. In the second place, it is necessary to
provide the enemy’s flanks with work that will prevent them from giving
effectual aid to the centre. This duty was assigned to the forces on
our flanks. Taking with them half the field guns of the Central Column,
our left wing marched from To-wan on August 22nd through the Pass of
Yang-shu-ling, drove in the enemy’s outposts on the Pekin road, and on
the morning of the 25th began their attack on the strong position of
Al-tan-ho, or Two River roads. Our right wing was ordered to assault
the Pass at Han-pa-ling on the Am-ping road and to seize the position
held by the Russian left, while a brigade was detached to contain the
force of seven or eight thousand left by the enemy at Pon-chi-ho to
guard the road to Mukden and, if practicable, to create a diversion on
our right rear.
These were the dispositions of General Kuroki’s army on the night of
August 25th, when the assault was made against the Russian centre at
Kuchorai, or Bowstring Pass. In front of this position were two ridges
held by the Russian outposts. The movement for the night attack began
at nine o’clock and at midnight the first position was taken. But the
really difficult task remained. At half-past two the stillness of the
night was unbroken save by the wolf-like bark of pariahs. Hill and
valley were wrapped in deep slumber that precedes the dawn and the moon
had veiled herself in darkness.
Suddenly the fields of giant maize and millet were stirred as by a
breeze. Yet no wind blew from any point on the black horizon. Ghostly
forms flitted across the valley. At first a score, the number swelled
into legions, until it seemed as if all the graves of all the townships
had given up their dead and an army of shades was marching through
space. Not a sound was heard--no footfall, not a breath. Yet fifteen
thousand men were advancing with rifle in hand and desperate purpose
in their hearts. Swiftly and in silence they moved until they gained
the foot of the heights. Then they glided upward, still swiftly and
in silence. A shot rang out, piercing the night with a shrill note
of alarm, and a tidal wave of humanity, rising from earth, swept
onward and upward with irresistible fury. Nothing could withstand that
steel-crested wave. Not a shot was fired. The position was won. It was
a magnificent feat of arms, which the Japanese declare is without
parallel--a whole division of infantry charging in the night with the
bayonet. Swept off their feet by this stupendous assault, the Russians
rallied at a point not far distant and appeared to be preparing a
counter attack. The mountain battery borrowed from our right wing had
followed hard on the heels of the division, and, coming into action at
close range, quickly dislodged the enemy and put an end to all fear of
counter-assault.
The success of this onslaught in the darkness may be ascribed to the
vigour and secrecy with which it was delivered. Not a single foreign
_attaché_ or correspondent who slept upon the wet ground that night
with only a blanket round him dreamed that a stupendous struggle was
raging on the other side of the mountain. Some credit also is due to
the divisions co-operating on the flanks.
In order to reach their position on the 26th the Guards Division began
their advance three days before. The roads were quagmires, and had to
be made good for the passage of field guns. Reaching Karoko on the
morning of the 23rd the fighting force repaired the road, and on the
following day came to the high ground North-west of Henkowan, and South
of Sanuipu where it encountered three battalions of Russian infantry
from Daisotung and a smart skirmish took place. On the 25th, after
another contact with the enemy, the division advanced to the appointed
line of Heilintzu. The Guards having begun their march a little earlier
than the rest of the army, General Kuropatkin withdrew part of his
force from Am-ping and Liao-yang, and strengthened his army to meet
the attack on the main road. This movement, while endangering the
position of the Guards, proved to be of benefit to the general plan of
the Japanese, for it relieved the pressure on the Twelfth Division.
Four battalions of this division--the Unizawa Brigade--had been ordered
to Kiao-tao to protect the right flank against a force of the enemy
coming from Ponchiho, while the main body of the division advanced from
Yu-shu-ling, and assumed the offensive at dawn on the 26th, after the
attack made by the Second Division. The reason for this was obvious.
The country in front of the Twelfth Division was especially difficult,
and they were in close contact with the main force of the Russians, who
occupied a very strong position. Any advance of the Second Division
would, therefore, be useful to the Twelfth Division, whose mountain
guns meanwhile were able to harass the enemy.
The situation on the left flank did not improve, and threatened to
become critical, for the enemy continued to strengthen his front.
General Kuroki accordingly despatched his reserves to reinforce
the Guards. This decision was arrived at after the most careful
deliberation, and was fraught with immediate consequences that menaced
the advance of the Second Division. Scarcely had the reserves moved
away to the assistance of the Guards than the enemy delivered a
vigorous counter attack against the left flank of the Second Division.
This movement was unexpected. It was too late, however, to recall the
reserves, and General Kuroki had no choice but to order the Guards
Division instantly to press their attack on the left, in the hope that
this would lighten the unforeseen strain on his centre.
Though successful in the night attack, the Second Division had not been
able to make the immediate advance anticipated. On the other side of a
narrow valley, fronting the ridge which had been carried at the point
of the bayonet, ran another ridge with a razor like summit flanked by
conical peaks and traversed by a buttress of rock descending almost at
right angles from the enemy’s trenches. There the Russians, reinforced
from Am-ping and covered by guns that kept up a heavy bombardment, made
an obstinate defence.
From the hill in front I watched the Japanese infantry as they moved
slowly and cautiously up the slope toward the buttress of rock, while
another body of riflemen advanced from the left and four mountain guns
were visible on the sky line to the right. The day was hot and many of
the soldiers had laid aside their tunics so that the slope was dotted
with white sleeves that made every step and every figure clear against
the greens and browns. Steadily the infantry advanced, taking cover and
extending until they gained the shelter of the buttress of rock from
behind which they opened a fusilade against the trenches between the
conical peaks. Their fire was hotly returned, and the shells of field
guns in the valley beyond began to search the slope near the mountain
guns. For two hours the situation was unchanged, each side holding its
own and maintaining its fire. After a time the Russian guns compelled
the mountain battery to retire a little down the slope where two guns
were directed to keep down the fire from the trenches and two guns
among the mealies in the valley covered the advance of the rifles.
The effect was magical. In a few minutes the fusilade slackened; the
Japanese seized the opportunity to press forward, and before noon the
flag of the Rising Sun shone blood red on the summit. The wedge of
steel had been driven hard and fast into the heart of the enemy.
Chapter XXVII
THE RUSSIAN ARMY RETIRES ON LIAO-YANG.
Although the centre of their right flank had been forced, there
appeared no urgent reason for the Russians to withdraw beyond the
river. There were hills in front capable of defence, and our losses
had been heavy. For the explanation we must look to the right, where
the Twelfth Division was driving back the enemy upon the Tang-ho and
menacing his flank near Am-ping. At dawn on the 26th our right wing
made connexion with the centre and opened its attack on Hanyaling.
The country is furrowed with narrow ravines, out of which spring
precipitous heights, on which the enemy were strongly entrenched.
Moreover, the Russians fought with splendid courage, and with
determination born of the knowledge that this Pass was the key to the
first line of their Eastern defence. East and South-east of Am-ping
were field batteries that gave great assistance in checking our
advance.
[Illustration:
BATTLE
--OF--
LIAO-YANG
DRAWN BY A JAPANESE OFFICER.]
“Do you think you will take the position to-day?” asked a foreign
_attaché_, speaking to a private.
The soldier hesitated, after the manner of the Japanese.
“Yes; I think so. But to-day the Russians are very obstinate!”
Dense fog hid the enemy late in the afternoon, and the movement
was suspended. Yet through the night a fierce struggle went on for
possession of a ridge on which the Russians, deeming the height
unassailable, had posted a field battery. It was rash, however, to set
limits to the capacity of mountaineers like those in General Inouye’s
command. The hill was stormed; was defended with stones and avalanches
of rock, and was captured. From the summit the victors hurled stones
upon the enemy, whose energies were concentrated on flight, and both
slopes were quickly strewn with dying men. The wounds inflicted by
the rocks were terrible, and the mortality was greater than it could
have been from rifle fire. Two counter attacks were made and repulsed,
and seven field guns of the latest pattern fell into the hands of the
Japanese. When darkness put an end to the fight this was the state of
affairs:--The Russian centre and left were withdrawing to their second
line beyond the Tang-ho, leaving a force among the lower hills to cover
the retirement, and their right was falling slowly back along the Pekin
road. Our right was pressing hard on the enemy’s flank; our centre
occupied the position evacuated by the Russians, and our left was
preparing to follow up the advantage with a vigorous bombardment, when
rain and mist descended upon the battlefield.
At eleven o’clock next morning the enemy began to retire across the
Tang-ho under cover of guns posted South-east of Am-ping. The movement
was cleverly made, and the spectacle was one of the most remarkable
witnessed during the war.
For five long months we had lived in the mountains. Day after day we
had toiled and sweated up the hillsides, and always our vision had been
bounded by a narrow horizon. We had grown weary of prison ranges and a
world that was a tumultuous sea of green. We panted for the freedom of
the plains, for a distant horizon and unfettered vision. And here they
lay before us. It was on the morning of August 27th that we had our
first glimpse of the great plain that stretches North to the fringe of
the Gobi desert. It looked unreal--a mirage of yellow and green fading
into infinite space. The mountain on which we stood, among gruesome
evidences of the combat, was veiled in mist that rolled aside like a
curtain and revealed the panorama of hill and valley. Bending like
a bow to the East the river Tang gleamed like an opal set in narrow
bands of emerald and gold. Along the near bank moved dark lines of
men and horses and wagons, stretching for miles till they vanished
behind the spur of a hill, and crossing over by a bridge, reappeared
on the plain beyond. In an unbroken stream they flowed past the white
tents in the bed of the river and vanished once more among the trees
of a village on the plain. From the mountains about Am-ping descended
tributary rivulets of men and horses, and away to our right tiny clouds
of white vapour on the dark slopes and crest showed that the Japanese
were encouraging them to flight. What a target they made, and what
havoc might have been wrought by a few well-placed guns of long range!
How great would have been the spoils! How complete the victory! Again
and again did the Japanese bemoan the fate that had given them guns
of short range and light projectile. Pursuit was out of the question,
for the enemy, conscious of immunity from shell fire, concentrated his
force with exasperating deliberation, being fully alive to the fact
that in their present formation the Japanese would never venture to
follow. All we could do was to look upon the spectacle, and moralise on
the subject of long range artillery.
We had driven the enemy across the Tang-ho, but they still held the
heights North and West of Am-ping and had a second line of defensive
works beyond the river. A great change, however, had come over the
whole situation. The armies of the West and South had encountered the
Russians at Anshantien and found them loth to venture on a decisive
issue. At half-past six o’clock on the evening of August 27th, General
Kuroki received the following message from Field Marshall Oyama:--“The
enemy at Anshantien has begun to retire. This may be the effect of the
First Army’s attack on its flank. I have given orders to the Second
and Fourth Armies to pursue.” Upon this came another communication
from Grand Head Quarters:--“The retreat of the enemy is confirmed. The
Second and Fourth Armies are pursuing.” Before the advancing legions of
Japan the enemy were fleeing toward Liao-yang and their last defences.
The news was startling, for it had long been known that the Russians
had made defensive works at Anshantien, where they were expected to
offer a stubborn resistance. That they should abandon this strong
position without a struggle was proof that the First Army had done its
work well, and had inspired the enemy with fear lest Anshantien might
be turned. The situation called for prompt and energetic action. If
the Russians had made up their minds to evacuate Liao-yang and to fall
back upon Mukden without striking a blow there was imminent risk that
all our schemes and sacrifices of the last three months would come to
naught and that our prey would escape the net spread for him. Liao-yang
without Russian guns and captives would be a poor reward at the end
of five months’ successful campaigning. Two alternatives presented
themselves. By overtaking the enemy we might compel him to accept
battle at Liao-yang, or we might engage him in a rear guard action and
detach a strong force to cross the Tai-tsu and strike North at his
communications. The position demanded a General of daring and resource.
Having withdrawn to their entrenched line at Shou-shan the Russians
were content with holding the defences North of the Tang-ho only
long enough to ensure the orderly retirement of their forces in the
neighbourhood of Am-ping. General Kuroki gave instant orders for the
occupation of the line from the North-east of Sobyoshi to Kosanshi
through Daisekimon. This advance met with feeble opposition. Our work
on the 28th of August was comparatively easy. We were in possession of
the South bank of the river, with our centre a little way to the West
of Am-ping, and our left wing established across the Pekin road.
On the morning of the 28th I rode toward Am-ping to witness the passage
of the Tang-ho and found myself within fifteen hundred yards of the
Russian trenches. In the valley behind me, sheltered by a precipitous
mountain slope, was a Japanese field battery, and half a mile in front
of it, among some trees near a rocky mound, were two batteries, the
fire of which was directed against a bold ridge on the opposite side of
the river. No enemy was visible, though the trenches could be seen, and
an officer on the hill before me signalling to the batteries. By the
way, the Japanese have many things to learn in the art of communication
on the battle field. They never use the heliograph, and only twice
have I seen signalling by flags. The range and direction of the guns
were shouted along a line of men posted at regular intervals on the
slope and in the valley--a slow and cumbersome process. The shelling
continued, and suddenly out of the trenches rose a considerable number
of the enemy, who fled up the hill pursued by shrapnel that did little
harm. Away on the left front a similar incident happened, though in
this case nearly a battalion was dislodged and had to climb slowly up
a precipice, where they offered a splendid target. Once more shrapnel
demonstrated how ineffective it can be even at close range. A single
common shell would have done more damage than scores of rounds of
shrapnel.
Before noon our troops had marched through Am-ping and crossed the
Tang-ho at a deep ford. Am-ping is a type of all Chinese towns and
has a very prosperous appearance. The houses are substantially built,
and those of the merchants are surrounded with high walls, loop-holed
and crennelated for defence against bandits and raiders. General
Kuropatkin had lodged in the largest of these houses two or three days
before and drank tea in the courtyard surrounded by flowers. The town
escaped occupation by the Japanese, for at noon General Kuroki received
the following orders:--“First Army sweep the enemy from its front
and prepare to cross to the right bank of the Tai-tsu as quickly as
possible. Second and Fourth Armies expect to attack Liao-yang, taking
the positions Sofanton, Otoen, Shaka, and eight kilometres North-west
of Shaka.”
Chapter XXVIII
THE ASSAULT ON LIAO-YANG.
On the morning of August 30th, when we looked down upon Liao-yang we
believed that this city of the plain would be the Sedan of Manchuria.
A crescent of steel was drawn about it, and armed men were threatening
on every side. Yet Liao-yang, unconscious of impending doom, lay silent
and unmoved. We had climbed a mountain on the East and saw the plain--a
great expanse of brown fields and grass with dark patches of wood. On
the North ran the broad river, in whose embrace nestled the city. Grey
walls, five miles in circumference, enclosed much cultivated land and
many houses, above the dark roofs of which towered a pagoda dedicated
to eight incarnations of Buddha. And beyond the walls was another and
a newer city--European in aspect--an ugly straggling line of brick
houses and stores, with a railway station, towards which a train moved
leisurely from the North over a bridge across the river. In five months
this was our first evidence of permanent Russian occupation. Upon the
flats South of the town were lines of earthworks and two redoubts that
looked like fortresses, and further South was a line of low hills--the
entrenched position or Shou-shan. From the centre of this line rose
a grey mass of rock broken and precipitous, and separated from it on
the East by the main road to Hai-cheng was a low hill with three broad
peaks that was to be the scene of one of the most bloody encounters in
the war.
The stillness that brooded over city and plain was charged with
portent. A struggle--among the most terrific in a quarter of a
century--was about to shake the mountains and devastate the plain
as with some mighty convulsion of nature. Yet only to the eye of
experience was any sign revealed. Save for a column of smoke near the
base of the pagoda the town looked deserted. Over the plain wandered
small bodies of men and horse, and on the river flats, where the Tang
joins the Tai-tsu, was a force of infantry and artillery guarding the
approach from the East. The hills were too far off to betray their
occupants, yet we knew that on the crescent line of ridges was a great
Russian army, and that on the plain and in the hills beyond were the
legions of the Mikado.
The strength of the enemy was estimated at six army corps or two
hundred thousand men. General Kuropatkin’s reason for withdrawing
to the defences about Liao-yang is clearly stated in his official
despatch to the Czar. His line of retreat along the Tang river was
threatened by General Kuroki, while his left flank at Anshantien was
endangered by another turning movement. “In order to save time and
inflict severe losses on the enemy, I withdrew all the army corps from
advanced positions to Liao-yang.” The retirement was attended with many
difficulties. “In consequence of the mountainous nature of the country
on our front and the bad condition of the roads toward the South, the
two days’ march toward Liao-yang was of the most difficult kind, and
only the devotion of all the troops on the East front enabled it to be
carried out in good order. Only after incredible difficulties was it
found possible to drag all the guns, without exception, and all our
baggage through the passes. Some of the guns were carried through the
mountains by infantry. Difficult as was the retreat through the passes
under pressure from the enemy, the march across the open country was
still more arduous. The left and centre columns succeeded in getting
all their artillery and baggage to Liao-yang. The march of the right
column, which was obliged to cross Westward to the railway, where
the country had suffered more severely from rains, was especially
difficult. Considerable forces of the enemy followed the rear guard,
which maintained a stubborn resistance. The guns of one of the retiring
batteries began to sink in the mud. Every effort was made to save them.
Twenty-four horses were hitched to each piece, companies of infantry
assisting with ropes. The horses and men, however, sank so deep that
it was necessary for the comrades of the latter to haul them out.
General Rutkovsky remained so long covering the extrication of the
guns, that his forces lost heavily, and the General himself and Colonel
Raben, commanding the Fourth Regiment of East Siberian Sharpshooters,
were killed. Notwithstanding all efforts, it was finally necessary to
abandon the guns. On August 29th, the army concentrated at Liao-yang.
One corps took a position on the right bank of the Tai-ten river, while
another held the left bank.”
The strongest point in the Russian defences was Shou-shan, a rocky
eminence 300 feet high, four miles South-west of the city, on the
summit of which stands a beacon tower built by the Chinese in olden
times. Along its North-eastern foot winds the main road to Liao-yang,
while the railway passes under the Western slope. The South side of the
hill is enclosed by rugged heights, and on the East are three hills
on which the enemy had constructed triple lines of trenches connected
with a covered bomb-proof way. In front of the position stretched a
perfect maze of defensive works--barbed wire entanglements, _trous
de loups_, deep pits with a sharp stake to impale any unfortunate,
_chevaux de frise_, and all the strange and terrible devices of
the military engineer.
The attack opened at dawn with a prolonged artillery duel, the details
of which were unfolded before us like a panorama, and recalled that
volcanic valley through which you pass to the King country in New
Zealand. All day long shells charged with death moaned through the
air; the angry snarl of shrapnel mingled with the roar of common shell;
tiny clouds of white appeared in the heavens and dissolved in a hail
of bullets; and slope and crest and plain spurted fountains of black
earth. Liao-yang seemed to have become the centre of every form of
volcanic activity. Hundreds of guns were engaged, including many of
long range and heavy calibre. Several Russian batteries were posted on
the plain in strong and well-masked emplacements. From a semi-circle of
earthworks to the South-east darted tongues of white flame, revealing
the position of sixteen guns; further South near a grove were more
batteries; in a ravine at the foot of the grey mass of rock were eight
guns; Westward, on the plain, sixteen pieces were in vigorous action.
So much could be seen from our mountain, yet it was but a small part
of the artillery with which the enemy strove to silence our guns and
to check our advance. On their left alone the Russians were reported
to have one hundred guns. Their fire was directed mainly to the hills
on our right, where some of our batteries were posted, and battalions
of infantry were waiting the order to advance. On the plain in front
of the range of hills that formed the enemy’s defence are three
hamlets sheltered by dark groves. Here was the first line of Japanese
infantry, and to these points also the shells flew fast and furious.
The cannonade was maintained without pause, and grew in intensity till
it seemed as if all the powers of Hell had broken loose and were
wrecking the world with fire and thunder. After a time the Japanese
gunners began to locate the enemy’s batteries, and their fire became
more concentrated; but the shells fell short and not a gun was silenced.
Again, and again, and again, sharp tongues of flame darted out of the
brown plain, and the hills were wreathed in smoke. Late in the day
a little progress seemed to have been made, for the hurricane swept
nearer and nearer to the city, which looked so peaceful amid all the
turmoil and strife.
Despite this tremendous bombardment our infantry was unable to
advance. The army of the South, under General Nozu--a famous
fighting General--strove to drive back the Russian left flank. Three
divisions--one in the centre drawn from the army of the West--opened
fire on the positions at Heinytchoan and Shinryuton, where the enemy
had forty guns behind strong earthworks. Again and again the infantry
tried to move forward under cover of the artillery, but were met by a
fierce cannonade from front and flank, and had to seek the shelter of
the hills. Our right and centre succeeded in advancing a few hundred
yards, but they lacked the support expected from the division detached
from General Kuroki’s army, which had not yet gained its appointed
place. Occupying the lower ground, and fronting nearly one hundred
guns--some of them fifteen centimetre guns--they suffered severely.
Our left took the position near Tsuafauton, but came under direct and
enfilading artillery fire, and was compelled to fall back after dark,
notwithstanding that the whole of the reserve went to its aid. At five
o’clock General Nozu’s batteries were reinforced from the left, and the
Russians were subjected to a concentrated and continuous bombardment.
But the enemy fought with skill and determination, and the situation
was unchanged. At midnight the cannonade was renewed, and continued at
intervals, lighting the dark hours with lurid fires.
The battle began again at dawn. Finding it impossible to move forward,
the division on our right had made trenches and sungars, where they
awaited reinforcements from General Kuroki. This supporting force had
great difficulties to overcome, and, after a night attack against
superior numbers North of Muchapoa, ran short of ammunition, and
could not move. Meanwhile a battery was posted near Sauchazui, and
opened fire on the enemy. On our left General Oku met with desperate
resistance; the supply of ammunition was rapidly running out; the men
could not advance, and help was sought from the centre. Two divisions
co-operated in a determined attack, the left moving steadily forward in
a hurricane of shot and shell that destroyed nearly a whole battalion.
Still the enemy held fast to the main position, and, making shelter
trenches, our men waited anxiously for darkness.
During all this struggle the city lay calm and undisturbed. Clouds of
smoke again rose near the base of the pagoda, and on the North-west a
village was on fire. Trains crossed the railway bridge and steamed
into the station or Northward across the plain. On the flats East of
the town and close to the river, Russian infantry and cavalry still
guarded the approach from Am-ping. It was clear that the enemy expected
some movement in that direction, for in the afternoon a battery of
field guns with a force of cavalry and riflemen made a reconnaisance
toward the road. Advancing cautiously in two files the cavalry appeared
on the bank of the river and drew rein; the guns took position
among the trees near a village, and the infantry halted behind. But
nothing could be discovered to arouse suspicion, and presently they
returned. Had they been better informed they might have been bolder,
for the hills were held by a few military _attachés_ and foreign
correspondents, and in the ravines were only some strong picquets.
But they were content with searching our mountain with shrapnel, and
driving us from the sky line, where we had no business. As the shadows
lengthened, the cannonade, which had been desultory and comparatively
feeble in the earlier hours, burst forth with violence.
Chapter XXIX
CAPTURE OF LIAO-YANG.
The supreme moment was at hand. Thousands who lay down to rest in the
trenches were destined never again to look on the face of the sun. The
night was clear and no sound of strife broke the stillness. Worn out
with fatigue and excitement and exposure, the soldier slept with rifle
at his side. A truce had been proclaimed--the truce of the night--and
darkness shrouded the dead. It was the profound calm that heralds the
storm. Already preparations were being made for the great assault that
was to drive the enemy from his position before Liao-yang. Engineers
were at work removing obstacles with which the Russians had strewn the
path. Their efforts were directed especially to the hill in front of
the village named Shyaoyansui--the low hill with three broad crests
and a gentle slope from the South. Three or four hundred yards from
the foot of this slope ran a triple line of _trous de loups_ or
circular pits ten feet deep with a sharp stake in the middle of each
pit. Nearly a mile long, the line of defensive works was broken at
intervals to afford passage to the Russians. In these gaps were barbed
wire entanglements and _chevaux de frise_, and behind them were
trenches held by riflemen, while in front were mines. At the foot of
the hill were other wire entanglements, and on the top of the incline,
commanding every yard of approach, ran a deep trench with a shallow
trench immediately behind. Along the summit were two lines of trenches,
traversed at right angles, and on the ridge beyond were emplacements
for guns. A stronger and more difficult position could not be imagined
or contrived by military art. It looked impregnable to assault. And, to
add to its terrors, the hill and its approaches were commanded by two
hills on the East and West--both entrenched and held by strong forces
of rifle and artillery. The hill on the West was Shou-shan, the steep
mountain of rock between the railway and the road, while that on the
East lay beyond the village of Shinluton.
Against this terrible array of pits and wires and hills and trenches,
bristling with rifles and guns, and swarming with brave and resolute
foes, the Japanese threw themselves with the reckless courage of men
who know how to die. How they passed the triple line of pits with the
sharp stakes ready to receive their mangled bodies, how they avoided
the mines, and how they overcame the barbed wire with its cruel
entanglements, I must leave to the imagination. When they came to the
trenches the work was straightforward, though it demanded heroic effort
unsurpassed in the history of war. Thrice they rushed almost to the
crest, trampling the dead and the dying under their feet; thrice the
line of bayonets dripped bloody over trenches piled up with wounds and
death. Twice they were driven down the slope wet with gore and strewn
with the bodies of comrades who had fallen to rise no more. The enemy
fought with the courage of despair, but nothing could withstand another
onrush, and before dawn they withdrew to the trenches and redoubts in
the plain. Liao-yang was won!
The Russians began to retire at two o’clock on the morning of September
1st, and the Japanese, having occupied the heights, sent a mixed
force in pursuit. The main body halted to complete its preparations
for carrying the line of fortifications on the plain. Very formidable
indeed were these fortifications, which, in strength and design, might
almost be described as permanent. Along the front for miles stretched
triple lines of pits ten feet deep with sharp stakes in the centre:
mines were placed for the unwary foot: the trenches were deep and
traversed to give access and exit in every direction: gun emplacements
guarded every approach, and at two angles were redoubts masked by
moats and pits--massive redoubts against which field guns might batter
and infantry perform deeds of heroism in vain. Each redoubt could
hold a garrison of one battalion and might be a rallying point in
disaster. But fortifications of this kind have serious disadvantages,
especially on a plain and in a defensive scheme that demands as its
first condition freedom and rapidity of movement. The enemy must
have recognised this weakness, for it was not necessary to carry the
redoubts by assault.
The fighting, which begun at ten o’clock on the morning of September
2nd, was confined to the trenches and the railway embankment, which
served as a permanent breastwork. From the railway station the Russians
opposed the advance with heavy guns, and from the North bank of the
river many batteries opened a furious cannonade. Though the enemy held
stubbornly to this last line of defence, it was manifest that they were
now fighting only a rear guard action to cover the retreat of their
army. Their orders were to hold the position at all costs and they
obeyed. Before dawn next morning, Captain Inouye, of the Engineers,
who blew up the Southern gate at Tientsin in the Boxer expedition,
passed through the enemy’s lines and reached the Southern gate of the
city. His instructions were to destroy the gate, but finding it open he
exploded his charge of dynamite near a temple. This was the signal for
the final assault.
The main army of General Kuropatkin was already on its way to Mukden.
Over the many bridges thrown across the river had passed guns and
equipment and stores. What remained was of little consequence and was
now committed to the flames. Several huge sheds stocked with flour
and wheat and oats began to blaze and unmistakable proof was given
that Liao-yang had been abandoned. But it was still necessary to gain
time in order to avoid pursuit. A strong rearguard continued to hold
the trenches in front of the city. Against these our infantry advanced
early on the 3rd of September. With heavy loss they came to within
three hundred yards of the trenches. One or two battalions moved
closer, but could make no impression. One method alone promised success
and from that the Japanese, with their inherited love of the _arme
blanche_, never shrink. The order was to fix bayonets and charge.
Up sprang the fighting line with a shout that must have quickened the
steps of laggards on the bridges and with a mighty rush the last trench
was carried. Again our casualties were many, but the road to Liao-yang
was open at last. Rapidly and in good order the Russians retired across
the river, destroying the bridges, burning their pontoon train and the
woodwork of the railway bridge. Next morning we entered Liao-yang and
found to our keen disappointment that it was not a Sedan. Historians
who are prophets after the event, will doubtless prove to their own
satisfaction that General Kuropatkin’s retreat was in conformity with a
premeditated plan to entice the Japanese into the heart of Manchuria;
that from the first it was his design to avoid a decisive battle at
Liao-yang, and that the losses sustained by his army were the natural
results of a rearguard action. In this theory they may find support
among Japanese Staff Officers who become suddenly anxious to explain
the failure of their Sedan by affirming that as early as the evening
of August 30th, they discovered indications of General Kuropatkin’s
intention to evacuate Liao-yang. To penetrate the designs of the
enemy, and to frustrate them is the part of military wisdom, and it is
not pleasant to have to acknowledge want of foreknowledge as well as
failure in achievement. It is easier to appear wise after the event,
and some Japanese Staff Officers succumbed to the allurement. Yet the
fact remains indisputable, that until the morning of September 3rd, the
Japanese never suspected the Russians of any intention to flee from
Liao-yang. Under that conviction they developed their attack on the
triple line of redoubts and entrenchments before the town, and made
heroic though vain attempts to destroy the enemy’s communications with
the North.
If Field-Marshal Oyama discovered on August 30th that it was the
enemy’s purpose to retire on Mukden, to what end did he sacrifice the
lives of thousands of men by hurling them in frontal attack against
redoubts and trenches upon which his artillery had made no impression?
If he believed that General Kuropatkin was already retreating, then
with what object did he reduce General Kuroki’s army to one-and-a-half
divisions, and send him across the river with orders to seize the
heights commanding the railway and cut the Russian communications?
When your enemy has bolted the door and is escaping by the window,
surely it is wasting time and strength to break down the door while
you may be at the window. The truth, I fancy, will be found in the fear
of the Japanese Commander that the Russians would not merely offer
a stubborn resistance, but would attack his own communications with
the South. Under the influence of that fear he concentrated nearly
the whole of his great force in front of Liao-yang and made a feeble
demonstration against the railway. His tactics were foredoomed to
failure. As to General Kuropatkin’s real purpose, it must be judged not
from his defeat and retirement, but from the conditions under which he
accepted battle. For several months he had been accumulating supplies
and concentrating troops at Liao-yang; he had guarded the approach to
the town with a triple line of trenches, redoubts, pits, entanglements
and military obstacles of every kind; he had many field and heavy
guns, and he had chosen for his first line of defence the low hills
South of Liao-yang which have been always recognised as an excellent
position from which to oppose an advance. These are obvious material
considerations which I admit would not weigh one grain in the balance
against the security of an army. But their value as evidence of General
Kuropatkin’s intentions is undeniable when we recall the stubbornness
with which they were defended, and above all when we consider the
heroic efforts and sacrifices made to destroy the force on his flank
North of Liao-yang, and to regain a position that he must have known
was of no strategic and of little tactical importance to the Japanese.
History, I think, will confirm the conviction that General Kuropatkin
intended to make a decisive stand at Liao-yang, where he hoped to check
the invasion and to take the offensive, and that Field-Marshal Oyama’s
purpose was to surround his enemy and to add capture to defeat. In
achievement both fell short of their designs.
Chapter XXX
KUROKI CROSSES THE TAI-TSU.
The part assigned to General Kuroki in the attack on Liao-yang was
worthy of his brilliant record. For five months his army had marched
and fought in the mountains, driving back the enemy to his base and
suffering not a single reverse. Our position was often hazardous,
and since the attack on Mou-tien-ling in July we had confronted a
superior force. We had to feed one hundred thousand men--including
non-combatants and coolies--and were dependent on a line of
communications always difficult, always vulnerable, and, in the rainy
season, always precarious. Yet only for a few days at Lien-chen-kwan,
when the rivers were in flood, were the soldiers reduced to short
rations, and never once were our communications seriously threatened.
At no time were we in a position to avoid an engagement had the
Russians cared to attack. Retreat in such a country would have meant
disaster. General Kuroki staked all on the chance of victory.
I have described in some detail the movements of the First Army from
August 25th, when the energies of the Japanese were bent on bringing
into united action the armies of the West, the South, and the East,
and on completing their strategy by leaving General Kuropatkin no
choice but to accept a decisive battle that under conditions that
would involve the capture of a large part of his defeated army. Driven
back along the railway, the Russian leader showed a disposition to
stand at Anshantien where he had a strong and well fortified position.
But his ability to hold that position rested on his power to check,
if not to repel, the advance of General Kuroki on his left flank.
Once the Japanese penetrated the line of defence on the Tang-ho,
they could menace the rear of the enemy’s position and Anshantien
must be evacuated. To protect himself against this danger, General
Kuropatkin detached a considerable force to oppose General Kuroki, and
was evidently satisfied that he could hold the line of the river Tang
while his main body engaged and defeated the inferior force marching
on Anshantien. We have seen how this plan was brought to naught by
the rapidity and success of General Kuroki’s operations after leaving
Tien-tshu-tien on August 25th, and how three days later the Russians,
outflanked on their left near Am-ping, became uneasy about their base
and withdrew to their last defensive line in front of Liao-yang.
On August 29th--the enemy having withdrawn from Anshantien on the
previous day--General Kuroki prepared to cross the Tai-tsu. His orders
were to threaten the enemy’s flank and to strike at the railway. Such
a manœuvre, if successful, must have turned defeat into disaster, and
the mere threat of it was likely to disconcert the enemy and arrest any
offensive measures he might be contemplating. But in order to gain the
point aimed at it was necessary to deceive the Russians and to act with
the utmost rapidity: while to ensure the destruction of their direct
line of retreat a strong force was imperatively demanded. Every one of
these conditions was absent. The enemy knew the hour and the place of
our passage over the Tai-tsu: our attack was delayed for two days, and
General Kuroki’s force was not more than one and a half divisions. The
Guards were in difficulties and the Unizawa brigade was watching the
flank near Ponchiho, which was threatened by a considerable force of
the enemy. There remained only the Twelfth Division and a brigade of
the Second Division. The river is broad and deep, and on the North bank
are mountain ranges and isolated hills, beyond which lie the plain and
the railway to Mukden. Having driven back a small party of observation,
the Twelfth Division forded the stream near Kuanton at eleven o’clock
on the night of the 30th and proceeded to occupy the hills East of that
place. Half the Second division crossed over at the same ford and took
up a position to cover their comrades in case of attack. Next day the
artillery passed over by a pontoon bridge masked by a rocky escarpment
out of range of the enemy’s guns. The crossing was made without
difficulty or opposition. General Kuroki was fighting with his back to
the river and in front of him was an overwhelming force of the enemy.
This was the position when I crossed the Tai-tsu and came to the
General and his Staff on a bold eminence crowned by the walls of a city
from which had long vanished every trace of human habitation. We were
at Kakuanton, about fifteen miles east of Liao-yang. In front of us,
across a broad plain dotted with groves and hamlets and brown with the
giant stalks of ripe millet and Indian corn, rose a long low hill with
a conical peak in the centre. This was Manjuyama--the scene of a bloody
struggle. On the left, divided from Manjuyama by a narrow valley, ran a
lofty range of mountains, and far away to the right another range with
five peaks, at the Northern extremity of which was the Russian coal
mine connected with the city by a railway. These positions were in the
hands of the enemy, who had strengthened them with trenches, and had
joined Manjuyama with the mountains on our left by a deep trench so
that men might move from one position to another unseen. In the plain
beyond the Northern spur of Manjuyama were posted two Russian field
batteries, and, concealed in a ravine in front of the mountain on our
left, was another battery. The range on our right was also trenched,
but was not so strongly held as on our front and left, where the
enemy’s force was four and a half divisions.
The capture of Manjuyama must be the first step in our advance and
the attempt was made at once. Three batteries of field guns opened a
cannonade from our front and soon came under the enemy’s fire from the
plain beyond. The range of the Russian guns was fairly accurate, and
to an observer at a distance must have appeared to do great damage.
But from our position we could see that the direction was invariably
wrong, and never changed even by accident. Hundreds upon hundreds of
shrapnel burst to the right of the Japanese batteries and made the air
hum with the hail of their bullets, yet at the end of the day only one
man was killed and seven were wounded. Our guns gave no heed to the
enemy’s artillery, but turned their energies to Kuropatkin’s Eye, where
the Russians showed themselves boldly on the sky-line. Again and again
the slope was swept with shrapnel and common shell that drove the men
from the trenches and sent them hot-footed to the shelter of the crest.
Reinforcements came from the mountain on our left, moving unseen along
the trench to Manjuyama and appearing on the slope and summit in long
dark lines. They had to pass through an inferno. Every foot of the hill
was flecked with tiny white clouds of shrapnel, and threw up showers
of black earth from common shell charged with a terrible explosive.
It seemed madness to face such a fire, yet the Russians came and went
and moved along the summit and disappeared behind the conical peak as
though proof against shot and shell. Meanwhile, our infantry were
making ready for a desperate enterprise. We saw them moving forward in
front of the guns--line after line, in close formation.
Now they blackened some green field and looked a target that none could
miss. But the country was broken and the corn was uncut, and though the
enemy’s guns searched for them again and again they passed unscathed.
Now the giant millet hid them, and they vanished as if the earth had
opened under their feet. Again they came into view above the green
bean stalks, they halted as if uncertain of their direction--for you
can soon be lost in the corn--came back and plunged once more into the
millet. Their objective was the North slope of Manjuyama, to the right
of a village almost in the shadow of Kuropatkin’s Eye.
So the hours dragged on, our guns covering the advance until rifle
shots were heard, and the movements of the enemy, like ants disturbed,
showed that our infantry was engaged at close quarters, and the fight
for Manjuyama had begun in earnest. Wildly and with frantic haste the
Russian guns in the ravine searched the fields in front of us, and a
battery on our right joining the fray, tore up the crest of Manjuyama
with deadly explosions.
The sun sank blood-red below the horizon, and the Western sky was
flooded with a crimson glow. The guns were silent, and we heard only
the rifles like the crackling of thorns in the fire. Suddenly, and
with one accord, every battery opened, and out of the darkness leapt
tongues of flame. Hill and plain shook with thunder, and the air was
filled with the roar and shriek and snarl of shells. It was a splendid,
yet a dread spectacle. All night Russian and Japanese fought for
possession of that hill, charging and counter-charging until the ground
was sodden with blood and the trenches were filled with dead.
At two o’clock next morning the enemy fell back under cover of their
artillery and Manjuyama was ours. Meanwhile, reinforcements were
hurrying out of Liao-yang, and a strong column marched against the
division on our right. With sixty guns the Russians defended the
five-peaked range near the coal mine, and our position looked critical.
But help was coming--another brigade was marching to the rescue--and
the fight went on with renewed confidence. The Unizawa brigade had been
ordered to seize Ponchiho and to join the main body without delay.
It was imperative that we should secure this range of hills, and on
September 2nd General Kuroki endeavoured to take it with one-and-a-half
battalions. From three positions the enemy shelled our advance, and
in front were three Russian battalions. Under a devastating fire from
flank and front the Japanese infantry fought heroically, but without
avail, and were finally compelled to withdraw. Then, indeed, we began
to feel the need for an army, and in the words of a brave General, the
meal of rice “tasted bitter in the mouth.” We still held Manjuyama--won
at terrible sacrifice--though stormed at by shot and shell from every
side. Night and day the Japanese infantry endured this ordeal on a few
handsful of uncooked rice, and at night were called upon to repel two
terrific assaults.
Fully appreciating the danger that threatened his retiring flank,
General Kuropatkin had given orders that Manjuyama must be retaken
at all costs. Covered by darkness, six regiments hurled themselves
upon the position held by four Japanese regiments. It was a combat of
heroes. Charge and counter-charge were delivered with fury on summit
and slope and among the corn below. So close were the combatants
that they intermingled and the utmost confusion prevailed. Leading a
regiment from the brigade that had crossed the river by a forced march,
the General found it impossible to distinguish friend from foe until
the bugle had sounded “Cease fire,” and the flash of the enemy’s rifles
in the darkness revealed the point of greatest danger. Placing himself
at the head of two companies, the brigadier charged across this zone
of fire, and the fight went on through the night with unabated fury.
While the fate of Manjuyama still trembled in the balance, an assault
was made against the mountain on our left, and one battalion succeeded
in gaining a foothold. But their ammunition gave out, and only a few
stragglers returned to tell the story of how they captured the enemy’s
guns, and had to flee just when victory was within their grasp.
Chapter XXXI
RETREAT OF THE RUSSIANS.
Exhausted by long hours of continuous combat upon a few handfuls of
dry rice, the Japanese were unable to make any progress. To add to
their troubles the field wire failed and General Kuroki was ignorant
of the movements of the armies in front of Liao-yang. All he could
hope was that the last report was an accomplished fact, and that they
had advanced as far as the river. But so far from showing signs of
retreating, the enemy, under General Kuropatkin himself, continued to
receive reinforcements, and pressed hard upon the Twelfth Division.
Throughout the 2nd of September, General Kuroki’s divisions were merely
a target for the Russian guns. No advance was possible until the Guards
on his left could make good their position. As this appeared remote,
the commander ordered them to leave three batteries with a small force
to occupy the Russians, while the greater part of the division joined
the main body at Kokanton. Meanwhile the fight went on with unabated
fury.
At three o’clock on the morning of the 3rd, the last desperate assault
of the Russians was repelled and Manjuyama was silent. Upon the reverse
slope within a few yards from the summit lay a triple line of Russian
dead. They lay as they had fallen--like brave men with their faces
to the foe--in almost perfect alignment as if stricken down by one
blow. Already the air was tainted with corruption and the Chinese
were robbing the dead. An awful sight was that hill, littered with
blood-sprinkled equipment, broken bayonets and shattered rifles. Dark
stains showed where many had fallen, and out of the reeking earth that
strove to hide them many a blackened hand was raised in mute appeal to
Heaven. Talk of the glory of a soldier’s grave! The poet who sings of
it cannot imagine its horrors. Though driven from the hill the enemy
held stubbornly to a position three thousand yards South, and a great
force was concentrated at Yentai on the railway, and at another point
to the North. Anxious to push on and to turn the Russian retreat into
a rout, General Kuroki found it impossible to advance. He had now two
divisions, and another brigade was hurrying to his support. But his men
were exhausted by many days of hard fighting. Two army corps confronted
him, and all he could reasonably hope and expect to do was to hold
his ground in the event of attack. Moreover, he knew nothing of the
situation South of Liao-yang, for his communication by wire was still
interrupted. Had he been informed of the success of the assault on the
trenches before the city he might have taken the risk and pushed on
toward the railway. In the circumstances, his hesitation was natural
and perhaps prudent, for it is open to doubt whether he could have
succeeded, and failure would have meant disaster.
On the 4th of September, having been reinforced by one brigade and
having command of two and a half divisions, General Kuroki decided to
advance. A dense fog screened our front and compelled us to proceed
with caution. But little or no resistance was encountered. The
five-peaked range was in our possession: the enemy had been expelled
from the colliery, and it was apparent that the Russians on our front
had retired. A mixed brigade marching from the coal mine discovered a
strong force in the hills four miles North and drove it out. Two and a
half miles to the South-west of the colliery another body of Russians
was encountered and engaged us in a confused sort of way until six
o’clock on the morning of the 5th, while five miles North-west of the
mine another skirmish lasted until morning.
At one o’clock on the morning of the 5th we occupied Sautowha, on the
main road ten miles north of Liao-yang, and in the afternoon shelled
the retreating columns of the enemy along the railway. Our losses were
heavy. From August 24th to September 5th the division operating on
our left flank had 2,082 casualties: 21 officers killed, 61 officers
wounded, 2,000 non-commissioned officers and men killed and wounded;
the central division had 2,024 casualties: 25 officers killed, 58
officers wounded, 1 officer missing, 1,940 non-commissioned officers
and men killed and wounded; the division on our right lost 1,540: 16
officers killed, 36 wounded, 1,421 non-commissioned officers and men
killed and wounded, and 67 missing. The reserves had 490 casualties,
making a total of 6,136 casualties, including 234 officers and 5,902
men. The proportion of killed to wounded was about five to one. The
army on our left in front of Liao-yang had 6,853 casualties, including
1,328 killed, of whom 56 were officers. The army on the extreme left
lost nearly 10,000.
Even this heroic struggle against overwhelming odds failed to turn the
Russian retreat into a rout. To effect the retirement of a defeated
army of two hundred thousand men without leaving captives and spoil
in the hands of the enemy requires time as well as adroitness. In the
opinion of men best qualified to judge, General Kuropatkin had ample
time in these three days. The resources at his command were great;
the country was in his favour, and his communications were never in
serious danger. He had many bridges across the river; many trains
were waiting on the railway to carry stores and equipment; his horses
and wagons were practically unlimited. The country over which he had
to retreat is a broad open plain without a single defile or range of
hills that the enemy might seize. Once over the river--and there was
none to oppose his crossing--General Kuropatkin’s army could move
along a front of three or four miles without risk or interference,
and fifteen miles North of Liao-yang he was beyond any danger of
effective pursuit. General Kuropatkin received all the credit due to so
successful a retreat, but it is well to point out that the conditions
were altogether on his side, and that in five months his troops had had
abundant experience to perfect themselves in these essential manœuvres.
Chapter XXXII
BATTLE OF THE SHA-HO.
THE RUSSIAN ATTACK.
On October 8th General Kuropatkin issued an address to the army in
Mukden giving reason for the retreat from Liao-yang, and announcing
that the time had come to roll back the advancing tide of Japanese and
restore the fortunes of Russia. Hitherto the enemy had been able to
keep the initiative by reason of their numbers. But the Czar had at
last given him a force great enough to abandon the defensive and to
ensure victory. Papers found on the body of a Staff Officer were more
precise. The orders from St. Petersburg were to take the offensive
as soon as possible, to march to the relief of Port Arthur, and on
no account to retire from Mukden. The army that was to attempt this
herculean labour consisted of sixteen divisions of infantry, and one
division of cavalry, the strength of which may be put at two hundred
thousand rifles and four thousand sabres.
One month had passed since General Kuropatkin retreated from Liao-yang
and, fearing pursuit, withdrew his defeated and demoralised troops
to the North. Finding that the Japanese were not pressing close upon
his heels, the Russian leader took measures for defence. Tieh-ling,
forty-five miles North of Mukden, was chosen as a base, and the hills
on both sides of the road were fortified. Wushun, thirty miles East, on
the upper reaches of the river Hun, was garrisoned by a large force to
guard against a flanking movement and connected with Tieh-ling by a new
road. The mountain pass that had served as the means of communication
with Wushun was strengthened with earthworks. Near Tahaitun, seven
miles South of Tieh-ling, the range of hills that cross the road from
East to West were entrenched; the right bank of the river at Ilu,
twenty-two miles South, was fortified; defences were made in front of
Mukden, and trenches were dug on the North bank of the river Hun. At
the end of September General Kuropatkin had completed his preparations,
and in the first days of October the army began to move South. Small
parties of Cossacks and infantry appeared on our front, which extended
from Pintaitsu, North of Ponchiho, to the railway at Yentai--a distance
of about thirty miles from East to West. Their mission was to ascertain
our strength and disposition. On October the 4th Japanese patrols
on the Mukden and Wushun roads were attacked, and two days later
the brigade on our right wing was ordered to fall back on the river
Tai-tsu at Ponchiho. The enemy on that day established themselves
along a line stretching from Pintaitsu through Sankwaisu to the North
of Yentai.
The advance of the Russian army had begun in earnest, and we were to
witness a struggle that has few parallels in the annals of war. For one
long week half a million of men held one another in close and deadly
grip, and night and day before our eyes were performed deeds of heroism
that have never been surpassed. Attack and counter-attack followed
with bewildering rapidity; position after position was stormed and
stormed again; now a brigade and now a company pressed forward with the
bayonet, and on the hill tops, clear against the sky, men faced each
other within a dozen paces or rushed together in one bloody scrimmage.
The Russians fought with the courage and fatalism of their race. Never
have they displayed such reckless bravery and resolution. But they have
lost their aptitude for war. Within twenty-four hours they had ceased
to be the assailants and were fighting for their lives against the
irresistible tide that swept toward Mukden and covered mountain and
plain for thirty miles with dead and dying.
The plan of attack was simple and resembled that of the Japanese
on the Yalu. General Mistchenko was to turn our right flank in the
mountains near Ponchiho, and crossing the Tai-tsu to threaten us in
the rear at Liao-yang. A strong force was to engage our centre East of
the coal mine at Yentai, while our left flank on the railway was to
be held and prevented from giving help. Against our right wing, from
Ponchiho to the coal mine, were hurled nine divisions of infantry with
one division of cavalry and a detachment of mounted infantry under
General Renenkampf; four divisions confronted our centre and left
flank and three divisions were in reserve. The assault was made with
energy and determination on our extreme right, and until the morning
of the 14th the force defending that flank was in serious danger,
General Mistchenko having succeeded in isolating it from the main body
and crossed the Tai-tsu with a brigade of infantry and a regiment of
cavalry. The failure of General Kuropatkin’s plan may be ascribed to
the obstinate courage of the brigade on our extreme right, who fought
for days against overwhelming numbers, and to the fact that, as on the
Tang-ho before Liao-yang, General Kuroki drove a wedge into the heart
of the enemy’s front.
At noon on October the 9th I left Tong-kin-ryo, the Tomb of the Eastern
Capital, a village four miles East of Liao-yang where ancestors of the
Emperor of China sleep in the shadow of pine trees and marble tablets
recording their virtues. The tide of war had swept over the hamlet,
leaving it silent and deserted. From the Temple of Buddha, which had
been my solitary abode since the Japanese entered Liao-yang, I heard
the sound of rifles in the hills two miles away and learned that
mounted bandits or Hunghutse had encountered the Chinese troops and
were being driven into the mountains whence they had emerged on the
departure of the Japanese.
At Taiho, a squalid collection of houses South of the coal mine, where
I arrived in the afternoon, were evidences of the battle. That morning
the brigade on our right had been attacked from three sides by a great
force, and a brigade of the enemy’s infantry with a division of cavalry
and two guns, had crossed the Tai-tsu and was threatening Ponchiho from
the South. Our right wing was practically surrounded, and a division
was ordered East to reinforce the garrison. At the same time the enemy
appeared on our front. They occupied Shaliuho, a hamlet North-east of
the coal mine, and Pachiatsu, further to the East, and strengthened
their force at Ponchiho.
Next day the struggle on our extreme right grew more severe and the
position of the brigade became very serious. The division sent to its
aid had not reached its destination when the Russians made a determined
assault from all sides. Prince Kun-in led his cavalry brigade East and
crossed the Tai-tsu in pursuit of the enemy, who had gained the South
bank of the river, but before effective help could be given Ponchiho
might fall and the Japanese army be compelled to retire to a defensive
position before Liao-yang.
[Illustration: A Buddhist Shrine.]
[Illustration: Figure of Buddha.]
Our situation on the 10th looked extremely critical and called for
decisive measures. Field Marshal Oyama showed himself equal to the
gravity of the occasion. He determined to rob the enemy of the
initiative by delivering an attack upon their centre. Once more the
brunt of the battle had to be borne by General Kuroki’s army. From the
uniforms of dead and wounded soldiers, from papers found upon officers,
and from statements made by prisoners, we learned that in the Russian
fighting line were thirteen divisions:--1st, 3rd, 5th, 6th and 9th
Sharpshooters; 1st, 2nd and 3rd Siberian; 22nd, 35th and 71st Line; one
division of cavalry and a detachment of mounted infantry. In reserve
were three divisions:--The 9th and 31st of the Tenth Army Corps, and
the 54th of the Fifth Army Corps. Nine divisions of infantry and one
cavalry division confronted General Kuroki from the coal mine to
Ponchiho.
The scene of these operations lies to the South of the Sha or Sandy
River and East of the railway. Though within twenty-two miles from
Mukden, the country may be described as mountainous. Ranges of hills
run in broken lines from West to East with a tendency to the South as
they approach the rising sun. The hills are bare of vegetation and have
many spurs shaped like the spine of some monstrous saurian--a semblance
that doubtless gave birth to the Chinese superstition that certain
hills are the backs of dragons and may not be disturbed with impunity.
The ranges are divided by cultivated valleys dotted with villages and
farmsteads, and seamed in many places with ravines and nullahs that
give excellent cover. From the plain West and for five miles East of
the railway, rise isolated and rocky hills that command a wide field
of fire and make good infantry positions, while toward Ponchiho the
ranges draw closer together and are loftier and more precipitous.
On the morning of the 10th, the two armies lay among the hills South
of the Sha-ho, our left wing resting on the railway and our right in
the mountains near Ponchiho. Both armies were entrenched and on our
front were few signs of activity. Our batteries were masked at the foot
of the hills near the coal mine and in the Eastern heights across the
plain, while our infantry was concealed in trenches on the level ground
and on the slopes. Early in the day the enemy’s guns displayed great
energy, their fire being directed against the ridges and villages that
might shelter riflemen. The key to the Russian position was a hill
about six thousand yards from the coal mine--a broad shouldered height
crowned by a rocky escarpment that looked like a fort.
Bastion Hill, as we named it, is flanked on the East by a range
traversed by spurs on which the Japanese artillery and infantry had
established themselves. Fronting it on the South rose a mount connected
with the Eastern range by a saddle. Behind this lower eminence is a
ravine and a dense grove. The Western slope of Bastion Hill descends
into a plain through which flows a shallow stream almost washing the
walls of a village hidden among trees to the North-west. The approach
from the South is over the flat commanded from a deep gully running
like a trench under the hill. On the North stretches another plain with
a range of mountains beyond, where the enemy’s guns were posted.
The scene might have tempted an artist and would have taxed his
palette. Before us lay the valley shaded with russet and amber. The
sun caught the sheaves of harvested millet and transmuted them into
gold, and from beds of dappled brown rose groves of willow and fir
whose green branches threw dark shadows over the homesteads. And beyond
towered mountain and hill which Autumn had tinted with purple and
amber. It was a scene of pastoral beauty into which the spirit of war
had entered unbidden. The husbandmen were leaving their houses among
the trees and hastening through the stubble, but not to garner their
sheaves which stood ripe in the sunshine. They were fleeing with wife
and child like Lot from the city of Gomorrah, “and the smoke of the
country went up as the smoke of a furnace” as gun answered gun.
After noon there appeared on the plain to the West of the Bastion
Hill a large force of the enemy. Their serried lines made a dark mass
against the russet fields on the right of our batteries, from which
leapt yellow tongues of flame that seemed to lick the lowest slope.
In front of this mass, near a cluster of trees, rode two squadrons
of cavalry, who appeared to have made up their minds to show us that
Cossacks have some use in war. Knee to knee they came onward and we
held our breath. At the trees they drew rein, broke line, reformed
and rode back. Presently they returned and treated us to the same
performance. It was a pretty spectacle, but the meaning of it was
beyond our comprehension. The dark lines of infantry behind also began
to move. For a moment we imagined that they were about to advance
across the valley, but they wheeled to the right, and, marching and
counter-marching, went back to their original position near the guns.
On our left, within range of our artillery, several companies were
digging trenches on the side of a low hill. They were at no pains to
conceal themselves or their work, and our guns left them unmolested.
Whatever the night might bring forth, it was soon clear that the
Russians had no intention of renewing the attack on our centre, and we
concluded that their immediate purpose was to demonstrate to a watchful
foe that they were present in force. Soldiers who go into battle with
brass bands are capable of extraordinary things.
Chapter XXXIII
A GALLANT FIGHT.
The weak point in the Japanese line of defence was on the right near
Ponchiho, twenty miles East of General Kuroki’s main position at
Yentai. To this flank General Umizawa had returned after the battle of
Liao-yang in order to keep watch on the enemy’s movements. The greater
part of his brigade was ten miles north of Ponchiho--an important
depot--but was withdrawn as soon as it became evident that the Russians
were advancing in force. The retirement began at noon on October
7th, when stringent measures were taken to prevent the Chinese from
communicating with the enemy. Stores enough to feed the brigade for
three days and one hundred thousand rounds of ammunition were removed
during the night, and the last straggler reached Karensei at six
o’clock next morning before the Russians discovered that the position
had been abandoned.
The enemy did not lose much time. At ten o’clock on the 8th, infantry,
cavalry and artillery appeared in front of Ponchiho, and it was
manifest that General Umizawa’s small force was about to engage in a
desperate struggle, upon the success of which depended the security
of the whole Japanese army. On the following day the garrison found
itself threatened in front and on a flank. Its position was extremely
hazardous and the peril increased hourly. A battalion of infantry, a
regiment of cavalry, and three field pieces had crossed the Tai-tsu
with the intention of taking Ponchiho in the rear. Had the Japanese
been able to command even a mountain battery they might have prevented
the passage of the river, which was effected with provoking coolness
under their very noses. General Umizawa at Tumentiutzu was appealed
to for help, but was so hard pressed that he could spare only two
companies of infantry and two field guns. The enemy on the other hand
continued to receive large reinforcements and pressed the attack with
fury. After a short artillery preparation they made a fierce assault on
the position. Working their way up a steep and rugged mountain, three
hundred Russians charged the trenches. Only fifteen lived to carry
back the tale of heroism, which brought fresh troops to the venture.
Overwhelmed, the Japanese had to abandon the heights. The hills on
the road between Ponchiho and Tumentogling also were captured after
a Titanic struggle. The field wire was cut and communication with
the rest of the army was impossible. Couriers were dispatched with
messages for instant aid. Most of them fell by the way, but one or
two succeeded in carrying the news to Head-Quarters and returned with
the command: “You must hold the position to the last man.” A Japanese
soldier hardly needs to be told that. Like the Old Guard he dies--never
surrenders.
But help was at hand. General Kuroki and his staff were keenly alive
to the critical state of the right flank. As General Fujii graphically
remarked: “My food tasted bitter in my mouth,” for he realised that
unless aid was given without delay the whole army must fall back upon
Liao-yang. Though he could ill spare a man from any part of the line,
General Kuroki ordered the Twelfth Division to march to the relief of
Ponchiho.
The advance guard under General Shimamura came upon the scene late in
the afternoon and was received with frantic shouts of “Banzai” as they
rushed forward to the aid of their sorely pressed comrades. But this
accession by no means restored the balance, for the enemy received
fresh reinforcements and showed the greatest valour and determination.
Many and desperate were the encounters by day and by night. Rocky
Hill, to the North-west of Ponchiho, which commanded the neighbouring
heights, was assailed again and again and was finally retaken by the
Japanese. A company of infantry, sleeping near the foot of the hill,
was roused by its commander who had climbed the height and found the
Russians in possession.
Seizing the regimental colour the officer placed himself at the head of
the company. So swift and desperate was the counter attack that the
enemy was swept headlong down the slope and threw into confusion the
advance line of a battalion coming to the rescue. Before the Russians
recover themselves the Japanese were pouring volleys into their ranks.
The victory was complete and no attempt was made to recapture the
position.
On the same night the enemy approached a narrow defile, and finding no
Japanese marched boldly into the Pass. Both sides of the defile however
where held by men who watched the advent of the Russians and waited
silently until they had entered. Crowded together in this narrow space
the enemy suffered severely. Throughout the day both sides fought with
indomitable courage and energy, attack and counter-attack following
in swift succession. The advantage however was with the enemy, who
threw upon our flank ever increasing numbers and brought to bear on
our position no fewer than eighty guns--among them howitzers, against
which mountain guns were as children’s toys. Our losses were heavy,
and it was with profound relief that we heard that the division sent
to aid Ponchiho was in sight. The arrival of reinforcements gave new
energy to the gallant brigade that had so long withstood this desperate
onslaught, but produced no immediate change in the situation. The force
in front was still overwhelming, and had by no means abandoned the hope
of conquest. Attack was therefore impossible, and for a time, at any
rate, the Japanese were content to maintain their position.
The 9th of October was one of the most critical days of the war. The
Japanese losses near Ponchiho had been great; important positions had
been abandoned; ammunition was running short; the men were without
food, and communication with the rest of the army was difficult and
precarious.
Field Marshal Oyama recognised that the situation demanded desperate
measures. Though anxious to await the fall of Port Arthur before taking
the offensive, he felt that his hand had been forced. Orders were,
therefore, given for a general attack. When I left the field on the
night of the 10th it was manifest that passive resistance was at an
end, and that darkness would bring important developments. During the
night an attack was made by the Guards Division against the heights in
front of Bastion Hill. The enemy had adopted several ingenious devices
to guard against surprises. In some places they had stretched wires
and chains charged with electricity of high potentiality. Their latest
artifice was a string of camel bells, against which an unwary enemy
stumbling announces his approach, and is welcomed with a volley.
Despite this warning and the use of hand grenades the attack was so far
successful that at daybreak we had strengthened our hold on the hills
North of Yentai, though the Russians continued to occupy Bastion Hill
and the spurs in front.
With dawn the battle began. A mist hung over the plain and clung to the
skirts of the hills, making it impossible to see what progress was
on our front. Out of the white vapours came the rattle of rifles and
the roar of artillery resounding through the valley like a tornado.
The Pride of the Morning scattered, and the sun lit up the scene with
a gentle radiance. Before us lay the broad valley with its sheaves of
giant millet among the brown furrows and yellow stubble. The villages
were deserted save for a few of their blue-gowned habitants who stood
in terrified groups behind the outer walls. Chentow, a large village
nearest the hills, was under fire from two batteries at the foot of
Bastion Hill. Behind the walls lay our riflemen listening to the angry
snarl of the shrapnel as it burst overhead, and laughing as they felt
the solid stone masonry throb and sputter under the leaden hail. Our
batteries had moved from under the hills near the coal mine. One stood
in the open South-west of Chentow masked by millet, striving to silence
Bastion Hill and drawing upon itself the concentrated fire of sixteen
guns.
I have called attention to the grave disability under which the
Japanese labour by reason of the inferior range and weight of their
artillery. Never was the disadvantage more painfully demonstrated than
on this day, when the infantry were in need of their support, and when
the chances of a whole lifetime escaped under their very muzzles. The
ground about the battery was covered with shrapnel as the tiny white
clouds burst in the sky, the bases of shells throwing up brown clouds
of earth, and the bullets rippling over the loose friable loam like
heavy rain drops. Very terrible it looked, yet no damage was done. The
men took refuge in deep pits, out of which they came occasionally to
serve the guns, or to bring ammunition from the wagons. The practice
of taking shelter when a battery is under fire is one that commends
itself at first sight, but reflection and observation shew that it
may become a vicious and a dangerous habit, and may seriously affect
the usefulness of artillery in action. In every other respect the
Japanese guns are skilfully handled. Happily, the Russian gunners are
not without defects. Their shrapnel bursts high, and the French system
of _Rafale_--that is giving each gun in a battery a slightly
different range--is not a success in their hands. For several hours the
unequal artillery duel went on. Occasionally the batteries at Bastion
Hill would seek a new objective, and the tree tops about the villages
would be flecked with white clouds. From the mountains beyond Bastion
Hill to the East the enemy’s guns kept up a desultory cannonade against
the hills on our front, and from one of our batteries on the plain to
the West came spasmodic replies.
At noon there was no apparent change. Our infantry remained in the same
positions; some like locusts in the hollows; others behind the walls
of Chentow; still more in the brown seams of the heights beyond the
valley. Suddenly all eyes turned to the flowing contour of the ridge
in front of Bastion Hill. The advance had begun. With heads bent, as
in a hurricane, a company of Japanese were racing up a hill, on which
were two trenches. Taking them in reverse, they charged the Russians,
and shot them down before they seemed aware of the approach. The fight
was short and sharp and bloody. Then they vanished. Presently I saw
them again coming over the brow of the hill. They descended the slope
to the saddle and threw themselves into a deep gully on the flank of
another eminence. Here they lay to recover breath, and prepare for
another charge. Out they came in a few minutes; at first a dozen, then
six, then in twos and threes. Never were soldiers fleeter of foot
than these brave Japanese, and never did men stand in greater need of
speed and daring. Scattering, they ran, some to the right, others to
the left--all making for the summit. Bullets swept over and around and
among them. I could see the tiny spurts of yellow earth that rose in
their path as the zip, zip, zip of lead lashed the air with invisible
whips. One fell, and another and another. Would they ever gain the
crest? We held our breath. Now they have returned to the left, and are
lying down hugging the ground while the leaden storm sweeps over them.
They are up again, and moving forward more slowly in extended irregular
line. Half a dozen men are in front. They reach the summit. Then out
of the earth spring grey forms to meet them. Rifles flash and the dark
blue uniforms vanish. The noble six have fallen. But their comrades are
advancing. Another second, and they appear on the crest. Again the grey
figures rise--a steady resolute line tipped with steel. Back fall the
Japanese. Even in that terrible moment they obey the voice of their
officer, who stands before them with drawn sword. They have formed
line. Their bayonets flash in the sunlight. Twenty paces divide the
lines of grey and blue. In the twinkling of an eye they meet. One mad
rush, and they are welded together in a grip that nothing save death
can loosen. For a moment I see the thrusting of cold steel and the
scorching flash of rifle. Then the grey line breaks into fragments and
rolls out of sight. The dark blue uniforms draw closer together. Their
ranks are thinned, yet they never look back. Again they move forward,
and from a second trench springs another line of grey.
They are brave men these Russians, and face death unflinching. Another
rush--another wild scrimmage of steel and lead and human forms, and all
that is left of the grey line tumbles like a wave over the hill. The
slope is strewn with dead. Even now there is no pause in the Japanese
advance. Closing their broken ranks they run to the crest of the hill,
and standing boldly on the sky-line raise their rifles to the shoulder.
Not until I passed over this dreadful hill could I realise what was
happening in the ravine beyond. Here were trenches and gullies out of
which the enemy were fleeing into the wood and along the valley hidden
by low hills. The dead lay everywhere--in the trenches, in the gullies,
in the valley and in the wood--shot down by the rifles on the hill.
Few escaped that terrible battue. A score of fugitives we saw running
for life out of this valley of the shadow of death. They had thrown
aside great coat and rifle. Now and then a man would fall forward and
rise no more; here and there a man would stumble and rise to limp along
painfully. The hurricane of lead followed close on their tracks.
West of this ravine out of which the enemy ran in ones and twos and
threes the two Russian batteries were still at their ineffectual work,
and a large force of cavalry and infantry were massed. The front of the
plain near Bastion Hill was black with them. After a time they moved.
Column after column passed behind a grove of firs into a village at
the foot of the Northern heights. Had the retreat begun? Outside the
village they halted and faced to the front. Were they about to deliver
a counter attack? We looked again and saw a column return and march
away into the mountains. From the East along the plain beyond came
more Russians--infantry and cavalry and guns. They, too, crossed the
stream and made slowly for the hills. Two batteries with an escort of
Cossacks and infantry came from the village and moved Eastward as if to
meet some unseen danger where guns had been booming solemnly all day.
There was much marching and counter-marching that brought to the lips
of the observer the military adage: “Order, counter-order, disorder.”
Doubtless all these perplexing movements of the enemy had their
meaning. To us they admitted of one interpretation. The Russian attack
had failed all along the line and the retreat had begun.
Chapter XXXIV
A HARD-WON VICTORY.
Now was the moment to strike and to strike hard. Out of the South came
a double line of men. They stretched Westward across the brown sunlit
plain--a far-flung battle line. War is full to the lips with horrors,
yet it has its crown of glory. And this is the crown--a line of battle
advancing to the attack. The blood raced hot and fast through our veins
as we watched them moving over the plain. Two paces between each man;
forty paces between the lines; khaki tunics and dark blue trousers;
rifle in hand. Onward they marched in long steady unbroken lines.
No parade was ever finer. The brown furrows and yellow stubble were
crushed flat under their feet. In their path lay a deserted hamlet,
over whose grey walls hung the shadows of fir trees. Near the village
they halted, and knelt with rifle at the shoulder--ready for attack.
The supports came up at the double. Then the lines rose and passed into
the village.
A moment or two and they reappeared in the fields beyond, where
sheaves of millet caught the glow of the setting sun. On the right
rose a solitary grey rock crowned by a temple, whose hoary towers and
crennelated walls seemed to have been hewn out of the mountain. In the
shadow of a sheer cliff lay a cluster of peasant cottages, and on the
Western incline was a dark grove. This was their objective, for here in
trenches and among the escarpments was a rearguard of Russians ready
to shed their blood for the safety of the army. Away to the left stood
another grey rock, shaped like the segment of a basin upturned, and
isolated on the plain. One side fell sheer into a deep bed, through
which flowed a shallow stream. On the near bank behind a little grove
and a few houses were posted two Japanese batteries, the escort of
which covered the Western slope of the rock. The lines were advancing
upon Temple Hill when the enemy’s guns found them. From Bastion Hill
and from the heights to the North came the roar of artillery, and over
the unswerving lines burst clouds of shrapnel. The effect was hardly
perceptible, and not for a second did the guns check the advance.
Swinging toward the East the lines moved steadily forward. On our front
appeared another line advancing from the South-west, so that Temple
Hill lay within a triangle of rifles. Shrapnel continued to rain upon
the open ranks, but the forward movement went on, the lines converging
upon the Temple until they faced opposing rifles. North of Temple Hill
runs a road on which the Russian infantry were preparing to withstand
the onset. Their rifles were already making gaps in the rapidly
advancing ranks, but the progress was unchecked.
Shouting their battle cry the Japanese rushed upon the line of bayonets
fringing the road. It was thrust and thrust, and in a few moments all
was over. The scattered remnant of the enemy was in full flight along
the road to the North. Half a company posted in a field to the left
rear of the Japanese remained until the last. Few escaped. While we
watched this hand-to-hand contest, the troops on the Eastern side of
Temple Hill were hotly engaged. From the houses at the foot of the
cliff rifles rang out, and from the heights on the North flew shell
after shell. The advance over this front was difficult, for Temple Hill
was strongly held and the Russians fought with the courage of despair.
Flight was not less perilous than combat, and upon their efforts
depended the safety of the retreating army.
While the attack was being pressed from the West a large force of
the enemy came down from the hills and drew near to the Temple. They
appeared to be contemplating a counter attack. But with the Russians
nothing happens as you expect. Well out of rifle range they halted,
faced about and retired, leaving two companies on the rising ground
to check the advance on our right front. Two new batteries in the
hills to the North opened fire and the air swirled with the angry
snarl of shrapnel. From the trenches and walls of Temple Hill the
devoted rear guard emptied their magazines and strove like heroes to
stem the torrent that swept toward them. They might as well have tried
to withstand the long roll of the Pacific. The wave rushed on and
engulphed them. When I reached the hill it was a sorry sight. The walls
of the Temple were riddled with shot: the painted mud gods through
whose breasts the Russian soldiers had thrust their bayonets a few
days before looked placidly down upon the broken and bleeding bodies
of the scoffers. One shrine had caught fire and amid the charred ruins
stood the gods shorn of paint and ornament--pathetic idols of mud in
all their nakedness. Upon the slope, under the trees, lay rigid forms
holding fast to rifles, and on the road below men seemed asleep.
Temple Hill was ours, but Bastion Hill was still in Russian hands, and
further advance on our front was impracticable. The enemy’s troops
massed at the foot of the hill had greatly diminished in number,
column after column having marched North into the mountains. The two
batteries, however, maintained their activity, searching the empty
fields, bombarding the villages, and finally turning their attention to
the guns near the rocky height on our left. Their shells did little or
no damage, though they kept our batteries silent. Only towards sunset,
when the Russians appeared to be making preparations to withdraw their
guns, was there any display of energy on the part of the Japanese
artillery. Shrapnel being fused at too short a range, common
shell was used, and clouds of earth and smoke rose about the enemy’s
batteries, but not for a moment were they silenced or their position
endangered.
[Illustration: Temple Hill: Ruins of Temple and Gods.]
[Illustration: A Manchurian Scavenger.]
Meantime Bastion Hill began to give signs of life. Hitherto it had
been only a prominent feature in the landscape, though its tactical
importance could not escape recognition. At five o’clock dark figures
suddenly appeared on the sky line along the Northern slope. They grew
rapidly in multitude and began to descend. Pouring over the edge of the
height, they spread like a flood on the Southern slope. What a target
for guns! How the Japanese artillery-men must have fretted and fumed
to miss such an opportunity. Along the foot of Bastion Hill stretches
a deep gully into which the Russian infantrymen dropped. Presently a
few emerged and ran forward into another nullah within easy range of
a bluff held by the remnant of the gallant company that had stormed
the lower height and wrought such havoc earlier in the day. Again we
looked for an attack by the enemy and again we were disappointed. At
Ponchiho, on our extreme right, the struggle had continued all day
with increasing fury. The Russians had pushed forward reinforcements
and four divisions with eighty guns were engaged. Our comparatively
small force suffered heavy losses, but succeeded in holding back
the enemy who made no further progress on that flank. At night when
hostilities were suspended our position was this:--Our left flank had
moved some miles along the West of the railway; our centre threatened
the Russian line of retreat from the East; the pursuit of the left wing
of the Eastern army was checked by a crossfire from hills North of the
Temple, and from the foot of Bastion Hill, while at Ponchiho, on our
extreme right, the position was still critical. There were unmistakable
evidences, however, that the attack on the Russian centre had shaken
the confidence of the enemy, and that they were already making
preparations to retreat behind the Sha river.
Ponchiho continued to be a source of the greatest anxiety. Though the
brigade which formed the original garrison had been reinforced, the
enemy showed no disposition to relax their hold. On the 11th they
renewed the attack with great energy, and on the following day made a
supreme effort to capture the range of hills North of Ponchiho. This
position was held by a single company of reserves of the Guards. At
four o’clock in the morning, a large force of Russians attacked the
hill from three points. As they approached the Japanese sprang out of
the first trench and charged with the bayonet. But what were fourteen
men against so many? The first line of trenches was quickly in the
enemy’s possession, and the remnant of the Japanese company formed
up on the crest of the hill. In the darkness took place a terrible
scrimmage. Friend was indistinguishable from foe. Despite heroic
efforts the Japanese were driven back and the heights appeared to be
lost when another company came to the rescue. The officer who led these
reinforcements came to the crest of the hill shouting, “Slay! Slay!”
and fell instantly with a bullet through the heart. Colonel Ota and his
adjutant were wounded and the colour bearer fell. Lieutenant Kiritani
seized the flag and the gallant remnant of the company fought till
dawn. On the first streak of grey in the East, the Japanese guns opened
on the position and the Russians retired, leaving on the hill eight
officers and one hundred and forty men dead.
To add to the difficulties a new and unknown force came up from the
South on the morning of the 12th and Ponchiho was surrounded. But when
things looked most serious an unexpected change happened. The enemy
who had crossed the Tai-tsu began to return and the pressure from the
South was relieved. It was clear that the Russian infantry brigade and
cavalry regiment had met with some disaster and that the attempt to
strike from the rear had failed. The explanation was to be found in the
action of Prince Kun-in’s cavalry brigade. When news came of the danger
threatening Ponchiho, his Royal Highness marched from the neighbourhood
of the coal mine, crossed the Tai-tsu, and appeared in the rear and
on the flank of the enemy. Coming upon the Russian reserves, who had
posted no vedettes, the Prince took them by surprise and opened fire
with his machine guns from the cover of a wood. In a few seconds
three hundred dead lay on the field and the whole force of the enemy
retreated in confusion across the Tai-tsu. The Cossacks made no effort
to retrieve the disaster, but fled East, pursued for thirty miles by
the Japanese cavalry.
This is the first occasion that I have known cavalry to be of service
in Manchuria except for reconnaisance work and masking the advance
of large bodies of infantry. In the mountainous region, where the
movements of cavalry must be confined to bad and often impassable
roads, it was admitted that the Cossacks had no chance of displaying
their boasted dash and prowess. When we approached the plains and when
the harvests were reaped we looked for some activity on the part of
Russian horsemen: but the furrowed fields of friable loam, bristling
with millet stubble, hard as bamboo and sharp as razors, evidently
acted as a strong deterrent. Save when dismounted to cover the flank of
the army retiring from Liao-yang, the Cossacks have done nothing more
than demonstrate how great a reputation may be built on tradition. On
the other hand, further observation has tended to modify the opinion of
experts as to the quality of the Japanese cavalry and to acknowledge
that it has some merits.
On the South, then, Ponchiho was saved by the cavalry brigade, but
North of the Tai-tsu the situation was unchanged. The strength and
determination of the enemy were undiminished, and though the Japanese
fought with courage and skill they could do no more than hold their
positions.
Chapter XXXV
THE LAST STRUGGLE.
The end was drawing near. Under cover of darkness attacks were made
on Bastion Hill and the heights to the South-east. They began at one
in the morning and were attended with some loss, the enemy using hand
grenades charged with tiny sharp-edged lozenges of steel that inflicted
cruel wounds. At five o’clock a general advance was ordered, and we
occupied the heights on the other side of the stream North of Bastion
Hill. Progress, however, was very slow, the Russians remaining in
strong position to the North whence they maintained a heavy cannonade.
The army on our left continued to harass the railway North of Yentai,
and strove to drive the enemy into the mountainous region on the East.
The operations of the 12th were not very effective, though preparations
had been made to envelope the Russians in three loops--one on the East,
another on the South, a third on the West.
The 13th witnessed events of supreme importance, and was made memorable
by one of the most desperate and daring encounters that history
records. North of Temple Hill rises a cluster of mountains united
by broad ridges, and from the centre of which springs a lofty peak.
Here the Russians were entrenched in force, and it was necessary to
expel them before any further advance could be made. These heights lay
directly in the path of the Okasaki brigade, which has distinguished
itself for reckless courage and stubborn tenacity. Covered by the fire
of six batteries at the foot of Bastion Hill and on the plain to the
North-east, this brigade advanced to the assault. As they crossed the
valley they came under heavy artillery fire from guns posted on the
Northern heights. The movement began at dawn, and the sun was still
low in the heavens when at the base of the mountains appeared lines
of khaki and blue. Here progress was arrested. Stormed at by shot
and shell the Japanese clung close to the side of the hill. Overhead
screamed the shrapnel of their batteries searching the crest and
reverse slope. From summit and ridge a brigade of the enemy swept their
front with a blizzard of lead. Over the heads of the Russians, too,
came the shells of their own batteries. It was a strange artillery
duel, and raged with unabated fury the live-long day, making that
cluster of brown hills a real inferno.
To advance looked impossible; to remain seemed certain death. Yet the
Japanese held fast with amazing courage. As the sun drew near to the
West we saw them creeping slowly up the hill. Russians came out of
the trenches over the crest and poured into the prostrate ranks volley
after volley. Guns drove them back to cover and the Japanese struggled
upward a few paces. Again the rifles appeared above and again they
vanished under the showers of shrapnel. So the conflict went on hour
after hour, and with every hour we saw that our thinned lines were
advancing.
It was nearly six o’clock in the evening when a company struggled
to the summit. Then was witnessed a terrible combat that held us
breathless. Every movement was distinctly visible from the plain.
Thirty or forty men of that gallant company had resolved to capture
the hill or die. Springing to their feet they dashed toward the enemy,
who rose to meet them. The onset was fierce, but the advantage was
altogether in favour of the defenders. Against that terrible fusilade
no man could stand however brave and reckless. The survivors of the
little band turned and fled. One man did not stop till he reached the
bottom of the hill. Undismayed, another section ran forward and was
rolled back, leaving several dark figures prone on the slope.
Out of this carnage rose a handful of desperate men. Without pause
or hesitation they charged right to the crest. Fronting them stood a
line of stalwart Russians, and again we saw as in a troubled dream
the bloody work of bayonet. In a minute or two the end came. Another
company ran forward to the edge of the slope, and over the summit
tumbled the fragments of the heroic defence.
When I passed over the hill it was strewn with dead--many of whom had
fallen under shrapnel fire. To the onlooker it is often a surprise that
any survive these fierce assaults, but experience has shown that rifles
at two hundred yards are less dangerous than at one thousand yards. The
aim is less steady; the firing is nearly always wild, and most of the
shots fly overhead. The slaughter begins a few moments after flight.
In this attack the Okasaki Brigade received indirect aid from a
brigade of Guards who engaged the enemy on the East. A battalion
advanced toward the high ground, two companies extended three paces
apart, a second company at a distance of six hundred yards, and a
third in column. They crossed the open, the leading company at the
double, the other companies at a walk. The second line suffered,
but the advance was not checked, and in time the troops came to the
village of Karikilon at the foot of the hill. Here the second line
took cover, while the first continued its rapid progress. The hill was
steep; the grass was slippery, and there was no room for an extended
front. The casualties were many, and two more companies were sent to
reinforce. Ammunition ran short, but the attack was pressed until many
of the Japanese came within twelve paces of the enemy’s first line of
trenches. Realising that the loss of this hill would bring disaster
upon their entire force, the Russians fought with stubborn courage.
Fresh troops poured into the trenches and prepared to deliver a counter
attack, but at the critical moment the artillery of the Guards opened
with so much vigour and accuracy that the counter attack had to be
abandoned.
Still the Japanese were unable to advance, and in order to retain their
ground were obliged to entrench. Two more companies, under Colonel
Ota, went forward to aid their sorely-pressed comrades, and throwing
aside everything except rifle and bayonet, rushed into the heart of the
battle.
“It is life or death!” shouted their commander as they swept into the
firing line, and carrying the other companies with them, charged the
trenches.
Nothing could withstand so fierce an onset. The first position was
won, but the enemy clung gallantly to the second line of trenches, and
their artillery devastated the front. Colonel Ota essayed an assault
from a valley to the right, but was slain with a hundred of his men.
Lieutenant Nakamura, sword in one hand and the flag of the Rising Sun
in the other, fell within a few paces from the Russian trench, and
the narrow valley was heaped up with dead and dying. The assault had
failed, but the enemy withdrew in the night.
The way was now open for further advance, and after sunset two brigades
marched North, and drove the enemy from the heights on which their
guns were posted. These guns inflicted severe losses on the infantry,
and delayed so long that they ought to have been captured. But the
advance was not quick enough, and only ammunition wagons fell into our
hands. Next day--the 14th--the enemy was retreating hurriedly on all
sides, and strenuous efforts were made to close in the three loops.
While the army of the West pressed hard upon the railway and fought
with the object of turning the enemy’s right flank, the army of the
Centre drove them back upon the Sandy river. Here the Russians did not
escape without enormous losses. Across a broad cultivated valley North
of the heights stormed on the previous day runs a low range of hills.
Upon two of these eminences the enemy were entrenched, and had a strong
rearguard of infantry to cover the retreat. Against this position the
Japanese advanced in the afternoon. I watched them from a neighbouring
hill as they approached from a flank and moved steadily forward in
extended order under heavy rifle fire. But it was soon manifest that
the _morale_ of the enemy had been shaken by the disasters of
the preceding days, for the resistance was not great. The hill on the
South-west was carried with a rush, while that toward the East was
still defended. Pressing slowly onward, the infantry drove the enemy
across the low saddle, over which two or three thousand Russians were
retiring. Then began the slaughter. The retreating force was caught
between two rapidly converging fires. From the summit of the Western
hill the Japanese swept the saddle and the plain beyond with rifle
fire, while from the East came advancing lines. Through this deadly
pass streamed the enemy. It was a spectacle terrible to behold. Over
a thousand dead bodies marked the path of the Russians, yet never a
white flag was raised. Even on the plain they did not escape. Shrapnel
pursued them beyond the banks of the river. On our right flank the
pursuit was not so vigorous though the enemy suffered very severely,
leaving many dead and wounded on the field. Our men were too exhausted
to continue the carnage. They had fought without rest for seven days
and the units had become mixed. On the night of the 14th hostilities
were practically suspended. We were in possession of the South bank of
the Sha-ho, and the Russians were entrenching on the North bank.
Thus ended General Kuropatkin’s offensive movement. Fifty guns fell
into our hands. We buried ten thousand dead Russians--funeral pyres
blazed in every direction; and everywhere we came upon new and ghastly
evidences of the disaster that had overtaken the enemy.
Chapter XXXVI
A FORLORN HOPE.
PANLASANTZU, NOV. 1.
On the brown plain to the North-west of Temple Hill rises a rocky
mound--the scene of one of the most stirring episodes in the battle of
the Sha-ho. The Chinese call it the Three Pillars of Stone, and hold
it sacred to the god who is good to little children in the realms of
Pluto. Grey craigs spring from the two extremities, and fall abruptly
into the valley. In the centre, where the ridge bends like a strained
bow, stands a Temple. Tower and walls are dark with the twilight of a
thousand years, and look as old as the three pillars of rock that shoot
up in their midst. It is a miniature Pantheon. From the gate over which
that fierce warrior and national hero Kwan is the sleepless sentinel,
you ascend to a series of tiny shrines crowded with painted images of
Buddha and his many incarnations, and come at last to the altar of the
god to whom bereaved parents pray for the repose of the souls of their
little ones. In the shadow of the grey craig, within hexagonal walls,
sits the great god, Buddha, serene and contemplative, with a circle of
disciples about him. Alas! the images are broken, and lie prostrate at
the feet of the great Bud. From their placid brows have been plucked
the gems with which piety adorned them, and in their breasts are gaping
wounds made by sacriligious hands in search of hidden treasure. But the
gods of the heathen have been avenged, for great was the slaughter of
the men who overthrew their images and polluted their shrine.
At sunset on October the 11th the Three Pillars of Stone were held by
the Russians--wardens of the mountain range against which the might of
Japan had hurled itself on that fearful day. Under the hills to the
South-west lay our infantry waiting the signal for a night attack.
Until the sun sank below the red horizon the men looked intently
across the furrowed fields and noted every feature of the landscape,
for the night would be dark, and upon the accuracy and precision of
every step hung victory or disaster. Under the best conditions a
night assault is hazardous, and when a whole division is involved
the difficulty is immense. How shall the soldiers keep touch in the
darkness; how shall they start and arrive on the instant; how shall
they know their objective; how shall the units be kept separate;
how shall they distinguish friend from foe; how shall the attack be
delivered simultaneously at several points on an extended and unseen
front--in a word, how shall eight thousand blind men act as one man
endowed with vision, with the same purpose, the same impulse? That
is the problem which the General had to solve. Every precaution was
taken. Watches were set by one standard; a signal was agreed upon; the
physical features of the country were carefully studied: the men put on
their dark winter overcoats; a white band was on the left arm of each
man. At midnight everything was ready. The scouts lay in the furrows.
Behind them were six battalions extended in one close line with fixed
bayonets. Fifty yards to the rear were the supports in column of
company, and one hundred and fifty yards behind them in double column
of company were the reserves. The orders were that the scouts should
advance until they came under the enemy’s fire, and then lie down while
the first line moved forward to the attack, and supports and reserves
waited the moment to join in the combat.
The horror of great darkness had fallen on the land. Not a star shone
in the heavens. Suddenly the veil was rent asunder and from the
Southern heights lept a tongue of flame. The signal? A pillar of fire
and then darkness--even darkness that might be felt. Six battalions
sprang to their feet as one man; the scouts rose from the furrows and
moved forward swiftly and silently. It was one o’clock in the morning
and the advance had begun. They passed through the village and came
out upon the plain. The stubble crackled under their feet; no other
sound broke the silence, and darkness swallowed up the long line
of bayonets. In the Mansion of Devils--that name the soldiers have
given to the hill--the strength of the enemy was unknown. From the
middle of the plain rose two small eminences and in the shadow of the
Three Pillars stood a dozen houses surrounded by high mud walls. The
eminences were trenched and on two sides of the cluster of cottages
ran a seven-fold line of trenches--one close to the other like a
maze. Toward these points the infantry moved slowly and silently in a
wide crescent. On the left marched the Himaji regiment under Colonel
Yasumura, and on the right was the Fukuchiyama regiment under Colonel
Shiniozu. The brigade was commanded by Major-General Marui.
Shortly before three o’clock the scouts came upon the enemy and,
obedient to orders, lay flat on the ground, while the bullets swept
over them. In the darkness men always fire high and most of the shots
fell among the reserves, and among the divisional staff behind the
village. General Kanamura’s horse was wounded by a stray bullet. The
fight was raging when General Nozu left the Central army reserves
in the valley behind the hills and rode toward the village. General
Ramamura sent warning of the danger and implored him to return. The
advice, however unwelcome, was sound, and General Nozu, with great
reluctance, acknowledged that the Commander of an army has no right to
expose himself without due cause. He accordingly withdrew.
Slowly the line of bayonets pressed onward, closely followed by the
supports, who had now deployed and advanced in fighting formation.
The objective of the right flank was a hill in rear of the Russian
position; the left directed its steps to the Western spur of the Three
Pillars of Stone; the centre marched against the cluster of houses.
The right carried one of the eminences on the plain and, meeting with
little resistance, began to close in upon the Three Pillars of Stone.
Here, round the little cluster of cottages, was the heart of the fight.
In front of the maze of trenches the ground was swept by a horizontal
sheet of lead.
Into that deadly zone men rushed again and again to their fate. The
frenzy of battle had seized them and they heeded not the prostrate
forms under their feet. The trenches spurted fire and death, for the
men who held them were brave, and their orders were to die to the
last man rather than leave the position. They were the 37th Imperial
Regiment fresh from Europe. Their faces were untanned by the heat and
cold of Manchuria; their uniforms were new and clean, and the gold
crowns on their shoulder-straps were untarnished.
We had been told more than once that the Japanese had not met the
flower of the Russian army, and that from Europe would come another
race of soldiers who would roll back the tide of war to the very walls
of Tokyo. Here were the men from Europe: soldiers of the Imperial
Regiment, brave as lions and sworn never to surrender. Long and stoutly
they fought till the trenches ran blood. Again and again the Japanese
returned to the assault, and again and again they were driven back
leaving a trail of dead. Fiercer and fiercer grew the conflict. At
last the remnant of the Russians, losing hope of keeping the trenches,
withdrew behind the walls of the compounds and into the houses. Here
they had great advantage and availed themselves of it to the utmost.
In vain the Japanese threw away their lives. Every wall was a fortress
manned by fearless and resolute men.
“Who is ready to die for his country?” cried the colonel in command
of the left flank. “Who will set fire to the houses?” Instantly came
answer.
“I will lead the forlorn hope!” said Captain Sumita, and from the ranks
stepped two hundred soldiers.
Captain Sumita placed himself at their head and forward they went
shouting their dread battle cry. One mad rush and they were over the
trenches and under the wall. Many had fallen, and from walls and houses
swept a tornado of bullets. Reckless of life a handful of men struggled
to pass the fatal barrier. One by one they dropped until not a man in
that forlorn hope remained. The desperate enterprise had failed, and
the enemy was still in possession of the houses. Near the front of the
hamlet is a pool of stagnant water, close to which lay the Russian
commander--wounded. To him an appeal was made.
“Why should your brave men sacrifice their lives?” asked an officer.
“They have done enough to prove their courage. They are surrounded and
cannot escape. Go into the village and advise them to surrender.”
The wounded Russian gave the answer that might be expected of a gallant
soldier.
“My orders were never to leave this place alive. My men must and will
fight to the end.”
A wounded sergeant was appealed to. He went into the village with what
message none can say.
But the end was drawing near. The right flank met with little
resistance and moved toward the centre of the fight. In time they came
to the South of the hamlet where the enemy held the houses on each side
of the road. The only approach was a fire-swept triangle commanded by
a low wall and flanked by cottages. It was still night, and out of the
black veil in front of the Japanese sprang tiny jets of flame from the
rifles of the enemy. Into this deadly angle our infantry crowded after
their leader. The officer who bore the regimental flag was shot down.
From his nerveless hand the flag was taken by a second officer, who
carried it forward a few yards and then dropped with a bullet through
his body.
To the front sprang the regimental commander--Colonel Yasumura--and
seizing the flag bore it onward. The air hummed with rifle bullets
and men fell on every hand. Still they pressed into the front rank,
trampling dead and dying under their feet. No man paused or looked
back after entering that deadly angle. The wall was nearly reached when
the flag dropped from their leader’s hand. He, too, had fallen.
“Fire the houses!” was the cry that rang through the night. Toward a
little mud-walled cottage darted a handful of men. Door and window were
forced and the thatched roof went up in flame. Through the red glare
Russians and Japanese were seen shooting and stabbing. A gap was made
in the wall of the compound and through it poured a torrent of dark
uniforms. Another fierce struggle and another house was in flames while
men fought under the burning rafters. Thus from house to house and from
compound to compound swept fire and bayonet until the sky was crimson
and the earth red. It was a scene that only Wiertz could have painted.
When I visited the village the Chinese were raking among the embers of
their homes: the ground was littered with pieces of uniform, fragments
of rifle stocks, charred bones, and here and there a skull which the
dogs had knawed. Some Japanese soldiers were exhuming their comrades,
over whom a few shovelfuls of earth had been thrown, and were placing
the black and fearful forms on funeral pyres.
Step by step the Russians were driven out of the houses. On the hill
behind they rallied again and prepared to renew the conflict. Up the
steep Western spur the Japanese were already climbing, and toward the
grey craig on the East another force was fighting its way.
Dawn was at hand. From the mountains on the East stole the grey light
that revealed the Japanese steadily advancing--a _mélee_ of
men, units, companies, battalions and regiments hopelessly mixed yet
impelled by one purpose. In the darkness they had stumbled on the
Russian artillery and had captured two guns. While securing these
trophies they were thrown into a state of great alarm by the sound of
horses. “Cossacks!” was the thought that flashed through everyone’s
mind. The Russian cavalry had crossed the plain and were about to make
a counter attack! The Japanese infantry turned to meet the charge, and
fired volleys into the horses before the discovery was made that it was
not Cossacks but terrified and maddened horses of the Russian artillery.
At daybreak the hill was in our possession. The remnant of the enemy
had fled to the North, and village and fields were heaped up with dead.
The forlorn hope had not died in vain.
Chapter XXXVII
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
We were riding over a hill near the Sha-ho. The dead lay upon the slope
like livid stains on a green carpet. In the trench--a deep scar across
the brow of the hill--was a tangled web of crimson and purple and grey
rent asunder by black hands and ashen faces.
Three days before I saw the tidal wave of war sweep over this hill
of horrors. Out of the clouds came men in blue with rifles in their
hands--a company of Japanese. Scattering, they sped down the slope and
vanished in a brown cleft; in a moment they appeared once more, racing
furiously up the hill.
From the earth sprang a grey line tipped with fire and steel. At sight
of the Russians the men in blue halted and turned. Were they running
away? A sword flashed in the air and the Japanese ranged themselves--a
line of blue upon which rushed the grey crest like a tumultuous sea.
The waves met and mingled--a heaving flood over which played the
lightning of steel. Blade in hand the Russian leader leapt forward
to meet his foe. A gleam of light and the point of the Samurai sword
pierced his neck. A jet of blood spurted from his nostrils and the
steel dropped from his dying grasp. Another moment and the waves
divided, leaving the hill flecked with grey forms. Broken and thinned,
the blue wave swept on and engulfed the trench where the dead and dying
lay.
Strenuous days followed laborious nights, when wounded died and living
fought. How could anything in that trench be alive! It was an open
grave heaped with dead.
“I saw his leg move,” protested my interpreter.
Prone on his back lay a Russian soldier. His eyes looked into mine.
Pillowed on a corpse, his couch was of dead men.
In a second we were off our horses and in the trench. His head was
covered with clay that was dyed a dark crimson; his open mouth was
filled with earth baked hard by the sun. Surely, he must be dead. The
eyes sought mine and followed me.
With hasty fingers I probed the clay and found where the bullet had
struck. It must have penetrated the brain. Still the eyes followed me.
I probed again. The bullet had merely grazed the scalp. It was a case
of concussion. We took a great-coat from a dead comrade at his side
and dragged it under him. Yielding to threats, a Chinese servant got
into the trench to help us. As we raised the living from the dead the
stiffened limbs relaxed and the leg moved. With a cry of horror the
Chinaman leapt out of the trench and fled screaming down the hill.
We lifted our burden out of the noisome pit and laid him on the ground;
we broke the earthen gag and cleaned his mouth, and gave him drops of
whisky and water. From his wounded head we scraped the crimsoned clay
and saw that it might yet be well with him. And all the time his eyes
sought mine.
Captain Okada rode to a cottage at the foot of the hill and brought
back some Chinamen. They placed the soldier on a door and bore him away.
Three days later we entered a house filled with wounded Russian and
Japanese. A wan face smiled upon us; two bright eyes welcomed us. It
was our wounded soldier. He could not speak, but he nudged a comrade
and pointed to the men who had plucked him out of the grave.
We rode toward the wood beyond the narrow valley where hundreds had
fallen before that dread company in blue. A voice called to us. We
turned and saw only the dead. A low, timorous voice haunted the dread
stillness of this hecatomb. Our eyes wandered over the dead in search
of a sign of the living. A bush opened as though stirred by the wind,
and out of the green peeped a wan face.
The man’s legs were shattered: one limb hung loose like the empty
sleeve of a coat. He had bound up his wounds and crawled into the bush,
where he dug a shallow grave in which to hide himself from the enemy
whom he had been taught to fear even in death. A few crusts of black
bread and a bottle of water had kept life in him for three days, until
the appearance of a European gave him courage to betray his hiding
place. We took a coat from a dead soldier, and with two rifles made a
stretcher upon which the groaning burden was borne to hospital.
In the nullah through which the enemy fled under murderous fire, the
dead and dying lay like leaves of an autumn forest. Here I happened
upon a strangely pathetic group--a wounded Russian attended by two
Japanese soldiers. They had made him a bed of coats, had emptied their
water bottles down his parched throat, had lighted a cigarette for him,
and had settled down for a comfortable talk, for wounds and death have
a tongue that needs no interpreter.
Near the entrance to this valley of the shadow was a field of maize.
The sheaves stood like towers of gold. Days before, when the guns woke
the echoes among the hill, and this valley was an active volcano, I
saw the farmer fleeing like Lot from the city of destruction. Children
clung to his dark blue robe, while his wife stumbled with a bundle in
her arms.
The sheaves called in vain to the husbandman, for when death is reaper
the harvest of the earth is ungarnered. Suddenly, as we looked, one
of those golden towers burst open, and out darted a pale figure with
uplifted hands.
“Kick him up!” It is not pleasant to see a soldier on his knees, and a
Japanese is the proudest of men. The Russian was unhurt, but had been
hiding for three days and nights without food. He, too, had waited for
the sight of a European, and was not content until he had from Captain
Okada a note in Japanese that gave him courage to approach the temple
on the hill.
Thus did we make our way over the field of battle until we came again
to the hill of the dead. Upon the green slope, trampled red with bloody
feet, lay the drummer who had sounded the alarm. His hands still
grasped the drumsticks, his face was driven through the drum, and by
his side was stretched a charred and naked figure upon which the fire
of a grenade had fed. About him lay his comrades like warriors taking
their rest. They had fought a good fight, and slept the sleep that
knows not waking.
Chapter XXXVIII
MUKDEN IN SIGHT.
STORMING A HILL.
Having struck their blow the Japanese made strenuous efforts to
envelope the defeated and demoralised enemy. Four roads were open to
the retreating armies. On the East they were falling back through
Taelin toward Wushun: on the West they had the railway and the
main road to Mukden: and between these points were two roads, from
Panlasantzu and Hialiuhotzu, leading North. About these communications
the Japanese strove to cast four loops from which there could be no
escape. Our left flank endeavoured to drive the Russians from the
railway into the mountainous region, while our right pressed them hard
among the hills.
The failure of this enterprise was due to one cause. Our force was too
small. Though we had suffered serious loss and though the men were
exhausted by continuous fighting, so eager were they to reap the
full reward of victory that they were prepared to take any risk. But
the caution of the older leaders forbade pursuit beyond the Sha-ho,
and this time their prudence was justified. North of the river the
Russians had entrenched positions and the country was more favourable
for defence than we had supposed. Their powers of resistance too were
still great, and their artillery served them well. Yet neither defences
nor powers of resistance would have availed had the Japanese been as
numerous as General Kuropatkin seemed to imagine.
It is a remarkable feature of the war--the complete breakdown of
the Russian Intelligence branch. From the first they grossly and
even ludicrously exaggerated the forces opposed to them. General
Kuroki’s army was magnified twofold. General Keller reported that at
Mou-tien-ling he was repulsed by a greatly superior force, whereas he
was driven back by four companies of infantry! On another occasion
a whole division was checked by a single battalion whose commander
adopted the simple and familiar ruse of posting his men in small groups
over a wide front. The truth is that the army was too small to risk
vigorous and prolonged pursuit or to make those extended flanking
movements that were so successful before the concentration of the
Russian forces and the abandonment of attempts to relieve Port Arthur.
Some critics have sought to prove that the Japanese kept Port Arthur
as a bait to lure the enemy South and that the prolonged resistance of
General Stoessel was of the highest service to Marshal Oyama. Nothing
could be further from the fact. The Japanese considered the fall of
Port Arthur essential to their command of the sea: it was urgently
needed also as the only port free from ice in the Winter. Yet had
they realised for a moment that General Stoessel could hold out after
the first week of August they would have contented themselves with
an investment. That, at any rate, is the deliberate statement of men
responsible for the conduct of the campaign. And they had reason, for
Port Arthur not merely retarded progress in Manchuria but twice robbed
the Japanese of the fruits of hard won victory.
From a hill, near the village of Sha-ho, I saw Mukden on the morning
of October the 16th. In the grey distance, across the plain which
autumn had tinted with purple and brown, rose wall and towers--a vague
shadow that melted into mist, like a city of dreamland. Away to the
West among the pine groves thundered the guns of the Western army,
and in the little hamlet at my feet was assembled the detachment that
was to try its luck on the other side of the river and to meet with
the first reverse to the Japanese arms. In the hope of striking the
enemy from the rear and compelling them to abandon their first line
of defence, the detachment, under General Yamada, crossed the Sha-ho,
captured two guns, and seemed on the point of accomplishing its purpose
when a division of the Russians came down from the North-east and
simultaneously an attack was delivered from the West. Surrounded on
both flanks the regiment cut its way back, but left behind nine field
and five mountain guns--the first guns lost by the Japanese.
[Illustration: Foreign Attachés and Correspondents.]
South of the Sha River the enemy still held one position until October
the 27th. Its tactical value to the Russians was insignificant, though
its importance was great as a post of observation. Whoever retained the
hill could survey the lines of both armies and note their movements.
Haitaoshan, which means the Mountain of Irregular Crest, is about
twelve miles North-east by East of the coal mine at Yentai. It is a
four peaked hill that looks as if it had been riven from the wild
ranges that run Eastward, like a myriad writhing dragons, and set down
on the river flat. Bare heights bend round it on the South, across the
shallow stream: to the East rises the land of monstrous furrows--brown
hills and brown valleys--while on the North stretches the grey plain of
Mukden. Haitaoshan runs almost East and West and from the peaks descend
ridges like ribs. The Western peak is the highest and is crowned with
the ruins of a small temple surrounded by an ancient wall. The Eastern
shoulder falls sharply into a green hollow. Between these points are
three small eminences or peaks joined by bow-shaped saddles. The
mountain is very steep and the slopes are clothed with long fine grass
slippery as ice.
In this stronghold--a spy and a menace to our investing lines--lay
the 2nd battalion of the 18th Regiment of Sharpshooters. They had
made themselves very snug and secure. Along the summit ran a deep
trench by which a man might walk from one end of the mountain to the
other and not be seen. The trench was covered and gave access to
three breastworks built about the peaks like redoubts and flanked by
trenches. Into these shelters the Russians had carried stoves--for the
night and early morning were bitterly cold--and an abundant supply of
food and drink as though prepared for a siege. It was evident that they
feared a night attack and had taken wise precautions. Assault whether
by night or day must come from the Eastern slope, since that alone was
assailable. Their design was to draw the Japanese--should they come in
the darkness--beyond the first line of defence on the East across the
narrow ridge toward the second peak, behind which were hidden five or
six machine guns that would sweep the approach with a sheet of lead
and leave not a man alive. It was a very clever scheme, carefully
thought out and skillfully arranged. Had the Japanese tried to storm
the position in the night they must have failed and have suffered
heavy loss. But just when you think that you have caught the habit of
the Japanese and feel disposed to prophesy, they do something quite
unexpected. And so it happened, unfortunately for the Russian plan,
that Haitaoshan was assailed not at night but in broad day, and was
captured with the loss of only one hundred and seventy men, of whom
seventy were killed.
On the night of the 26th of October a message was brought from
Head-Quarters that at eight o’clock next morning a certain mountain
eight miles from Bastion Hill would be bombarded. The invitation did
not sound promising, for artillery duels had long been daily episodes,
and are rarely interesting save when they pave the way for infantry.
However, we went and were rewarded by a notable example of artillery
and infantry working together as smoothly and effectively as if they
were the fly wheel and the driving wheel of one engine.
South of Haitaoshan, at a distance of about three thousand yards, rise
precipitous hills, on one of which, well hidden from the enemy’s view,
was a field battery. To the East, among the heights, was posted another
battery, and to the West on a lower elevation was a third battery of
captured Russian guns. North of Haitaoshan the hills are more remote,
and to bring their artillery within effective range of our batteries
the enemy would have to expose their guns in the open.
As soon as the morning mist cleared and revealed the heights beyond
the Sha-ho dotted with dark figures, the bombardment began. From the
batteries on the East and South came a slow and steady succession of
shells directed against the trenches on the Eastern slope and the
breastworks on the summit of the mountain. The Russians strove to reply
from the cover of a low ridge on the North-west, but their efforts were
futile. The range was too great, and our batteries could have been hit
only by accident. It was notable that whereas the Japanese used high
explosive shells against the trenches, the enemy employed shrapnel.
The cannonade continued without incident until one o’clock in the
afternoon, when the infantry began to advance.
They came out of trenches on the rising ground to the South and
passed from the green hollow toward the Eastern slope. It was a steep
climb and slippery, but the Japanese, mindful of every detail, had
tied pieces of rope over their boots and climbed like experienced
mountaineers. At first one company appeared and made quickly for the
shoulder of the hill. Another followed, and then a third marched out
of a dark grove on the South and spread along the rib that descended
from the first peak. On the shoulder of the mountain the resistance was
slight, though several Japanese fell before the enemy withdrew to the
first breastwork or redoubt. Clustered like bees under the shoulder
the infantry lay while the reserves advanced from the hollow and the
guns concentrated their fire on the first peak. Here were Russians
plainly enough, though how many we could not say until the shells began
to drive them from cover. At first singly, then in twos and threes
they appeared, running toward the second peak and vanished over the
crest. Shrapnel pursued them, for it was against trenches only that the
Japanese used common shell. Again the little redoubt was wreathed in
smoke and clouds of black earth, and again men ran from it like ants
whose nest has been disturbed. So the bombardment went on until it
seemed that no living thing could be within the circle of fire. And all
this time the infantry lay under the shoulder of the mountain and on
the ribbed slope. It was “dead” ground they clung to--a swift incline
that shielded them from rifle fire, though not more than one hundred
yards from the enemy. For two hours they remained in this position,
while Russians passed to and fro between the first and second peaks,
and an officer raised his head above the breastwork to see if the
Japanese made any movement. It looked as if the attack had failed; yet
so great is the confidence inspired by victory that not one of the
foreign observers doubted for an instant the ability of the Japanese
infantry to accomplish their purpose. Now the guns were seized with
new fury and the mountain became an active volcano. Another moment and
there was silence so deep and solemn that you felt as though suddenly
roused from sleep to discover that the battle and the bloodshed were
only a dream.
At three o’clock a movement was observed in the black cluster under
the shoulder of the hill. A sergeant--without orders, I am told--rose
and climbed rapidly toward the first breastwork. He was followed by
about a dozen soldiers. As they approached the Russians came out of the
trench and stood behind the redoubt with rifles at their shoulder. A
splutter of bullets and one or two Japanese rolled over: but the rest
went on with a rush and came close to the breastwork almost upon the
bayonets of the Russians who leapt forward to meet them. Brave and
desperate men--Russian and Japanese! They closed for a second and then
the Japanese ran back--all that was left of them. The gallant sergeant
quickly found that he had ventured into a hornets’ nest. On his left
was a trench lined with riflemen: in front was the redoubt bristling
with bayonets and darting fire, and suddenly on his right came another
body of Russians. The position of this handful of Japanese looked
hopeless, when just at the critical moment a shell flew over their
heads--it must have singed their hair--and burst right among the enemy.
The half dozen who came out of this fray lost no time in seeking the
cover of the shoulder of the hill.
Meanwhile another company was advancing up the slope under shrapnel
fire from the Russian guns which had abandoned the duel with our
artillery and sought--too late--to arrest the progress of our infantry.
Once more the batteries pounded away at the breastwork and trenches
and once more the enemy ran out of the inferno. They had done their
duty with amazing courage and audacity: they had covered the retirement
of their comrades and now sought safety in flight. As yet it was
impossible to realise that the position had been evacuated and that
the second and third redoubts and lines of trenches were empty. At
five minutes to four o’clock the guns ceased fire: the infantry rose
from under the shelter of the hill; and from the ribbed spur. With
rapid strides they drew near to the first peak and pressed up the
steep slope from the South. A solitary Russian appeared running at full
speed and vanished over the crest. There was a few minutes pause to
take breath and then an officer moved on toward the second breastwork
followed by a soldier waving the flag of the Rising Sun as a signal to
the artillery. No shot came from the little fort and the officer went
quickly forward to the third peak. Again no enemy. And so to the temple
on the highest summit. The Russians were scurrying down the hill into
the valley and across the Sha-ho, while the Japanese stood on the crest
and fired down upon them.
Chapter XXXIX
THE STORY OF A FAMOUS BRIGADE.
The record of the Okasaki Brigade covers almost every important action
in which General Kuroki was engaged. It bore the brunt of fifteen great
fights and won laurels that can never fade. To measure the capacity of
a General by his casualty list, as was our unfortunate habit in South
Africa, is folly, yet the test may be applied to a brigade that has
been in the field seven months.
On March 26th, when General Okasaki landed at Chinampo, he had in his
command six thousand men, of whom only four thousand were combatants.
The casualties of the brigade from that date to October were 3,889; 675
men were killed and 3,214 wounded, including 32 officers killed and 93
wounded. Only three men out of the six thousand died from disease in
seven months--an almost incredible record and convincing proof of the
immunity of Japanese soldiers against the consequences of hardship,
privation, exposure and insanitary conditions that devastate European
armies.
Of the original number of combatants practically all were slain or
wounded: not a single battalion was commanded by the officer who landed
with it at Chinampo, and one battalion changed its leader no fewer than
three times.
These figures prove not only the desperate character of the fighting
but the unshaken _morale_ of the Japanese infantry, for, despite
these enormous losses, the Okasaki Brigade was as eager as ever to be
foremost in battle.
Success in war depends on the spirit of the soldiers and the character
and skill of their leaders. Rarely has the combination of these
qualities been as perfect as in this famous brigade which is raised in
the Northern provinces of Japan. Their commander is a man who inspires
unbounded confidence in his judgment, while his modesty and simplicity
of manner have won the affection of his soldiers.
General Okasaki belongs to a race of Samurai or fighting clans and
enlisted in the Imperial army. At the age of eighteen years he
fought for the restoration of the temporal power of the Mikado and
was severely wounded--twice by bullets and once by the sword. While
pursuing an enemy on foot a man darted out of a bush and thrust his
sword into the young soldier’s side. Stepping back one pace Okasaki
struck off the head of his assailant. In the Civil War of 1879 was
again wounded. A subaltern in the force sent to attack the enemy’s
rear, he landed at Nagasaki and received two bullets that kept him in
hospital for three weeks. In the advance on Kumamoto he commanded a
battalion and was afterwards promoted to the rank of captain. He was
a major in 1885 and five years later was appointed aide-de-camp to
the Prince Imperial. At the outbreak of war with China, Okasaki was a
lieutenant-colonel and acted as chief of the staff to the 4th Division
in Osaka. In 1897 he was chief of the staff of the Japanese garrison
at Wei-hai-wei and after the evacuation of that port became a member
of the General Staff in Tokyo. From the chief staff office of the 2nd
Division he passed in 1901 to the command of the brigade which has
proved itself in every way worthy of so gallant and experienced a
leader.
The brigade sailed from Ujina on March 20th and disembarked at
Chinampo six days later. It was a regiment of this brigade--the 16th
regiment--that hoisted the Imperial flag on the Conical Hill at
Chiu-lien-cheng, and another regiment--the 30th--that pursued the
fugitive enemy to Hamatan and captured the Russian batteries. These
are the most brilliant episodes in the battle of the Yalu. After the
occupation of Feng-hoang-cheng, General Okasaki was in the first
fighting line and held the Pass of Mou-tien-ling, where he repulsed
two counter attacks by greatly superior forces. On July 31st he led
his brigade from Mou-tien-ling through the mountains east to assist
the 12th Division in the fight at Yu-shu-ling. It was the hottest day
of the year, and General Okasaki was suffering from dysentery. He was
unable to ride, and marched the whole way in the blazing sun. On the
battlefield his pain was so intense that he ordered the doctor to
inject chloroform into his intestines, and continued to direct the
operations.
“I never fought a more interesting fight,” observed the General. “It
was like hunting hares.”
I need not tell again how the Okasaki Brigade struck the right flank
of the enemy at Pinlei and rolled it back into the mountains; how it
seized the precipitous height under which the Russians were retreating;
and how it slew seven hundred with the loss of only seventeen men. In
the advance on the Tang-ho--a movement that forced the enemy to retire
from Anshantien and fall back upon the defences before Liao-yang--the
brigade was assigned an important part. On the night of August
26th General Okasaki made an attack which the Japanese claim to be
unprecedented in the history of war. The whole brigade stormed the
position on Kyu-cho-lei and carried it with the bayonet. Not a shot
was fired as the men moved silently forward through the millet fields,
keeping in close touch so that when they reached the hill the brigade
charged as one man. The moon shone with greater brilliance on that
night than I have ever seen it shine in any land, yet not a sign nor
a sound came from the valley. The men had wrapped their bayonets in
millet straw.
The days that followed were crowded with stirring incident. On the
27th of August General Okasaki assaulted and took Tsuego, on the 28th
Sonkasai, on the 29th and 30th Sekisoshi, and on the 31st Kantong,
thereby opening the way to Am-ping and the passage of the Tai-tsu
river--the flanking movement that sent General Kuropatkin in flight to
Mukden.
In four previous chapters I have described the fierce struggle on
the North bank of the Tai-tsu, where, with one and a half divisions,
General Kuroki kept at bay and finally drove back upon the railway
five Russian divisions led by General Kuropatkin himself. Without
exaggeration it may be said that General Kuropatkin was defeated by
one regiment of the Okasaki Brigade, for he made the hill known as
Manjuyama the pivot of his attack, and on September 1st that position
was won by General Okasaki and held after three days and nights of the
bloodiest work in this or any war. Again and again did the Russians
strive to recover the hill. Nor did they abandon the attempt until
two thousand had been slain. The scene on the morning of September
4th was one of the most awful I had ever beheld. For two days the
Japanese fought on a few handfuls of dry rice. It was during that three
days fight that General Okasaki put the discipline of his men to the
severest test that could ever be imposed. During a counter-attack in
the dark, General Okasaki, leading some reserves into action, found
friend and foe so mingled that he could not tell at which point help
was most needed. He solved the difficulty by ordering the trumpeter to
sound the cease fire. Despite the fact that the Japanese were scattered
and were engaged in a hand to hand struggle in which a second’s
hesitation meant certain death, they obeyed the signal as one man.
“When I saw that,” said the General with a proud look in his eyes, “I
was sure that we could keep the position.”
Manjuyama has been named Okasaki-yama, or Okasaki Hill, in honour of
that great victory.
These achievements might well suffice for the record of any brigade,
yet they are only the preface to the chronicle of the deeds of Okasaki.
In the seven days fighting that repulsed the Russian assault and
swept General Kuropatkin across the Sha-ho with the loss of sixty
or seventy thousand men and fifty guns, the Okasaki Brigade was the
steel wedge that General Kuroki drove into the heart of the Russian
centre, and that forced the enemy to act on the defensive once more.
On the afternoon of October 11th General Okasaki took Temple Hill--the
isolated rock crowned by a temple three or four miles North-west of the
coal mine. It was at first intended that the Matsunaga Brigade should
occupy Bastion Hill--the lofty height with a bastion-like summit--which
was the centre of the Russian resistance on the morning of the 11th.
Three battalions of the Matsunaga Brigade marched from camp at three
o’clock in the morning and advanced against this formidable position.
Forcing back the enemy from their front they came to the Western
slope of the hill, where the guns began to play upon them. With one
battalion on the right and two on the left, the brigade pressed
on under showers of shrapnel. The Japanese batteries were to have
supported the assault by engaging the Russian artillery, but our guns
were outranged and could not reach the enemy’s batteries. Seeing the
disadvantage under which their assailants laboured from want of this
support, a considerable body of Russians attacked the flank of the
battalion on the left. This was the opportunity for which our artillery
in the shadow of a rocky hill had been anxiously watching. In a moment
the shells began to fall thick and fast among the enemy who retired
in great disorder pulling their wounded comrades into the pine grove
in the ravine. Undaunted by this failure, the Russians held fast by
the right and delivered another counter-attack which was repelled by a
small company of Japanese.
Meanwhile, General Okasaki, whose brigade was posted on our left in
front of the coal mine, waited the moment to advance on Temple Hill.
Hours passed and Bastion Hill remained in the hands of the enemy.
At last General Okasaki decided that it would be imprudent to wait
longer. An attack on Temple Hill might relieve the pressure on the
Matsunaga Brigade. Accordingly the order was given to advance. At
eleven o’clock the 30th regiment on the right moved forward to the
village of Kuchapuzu, about two miles to the South-west of Temple
Hill, while the 16th regiment reached Palasantzu, a village about the
same distance to the South-east. Happily, the Russians appeared not to
notice this movement, although it was made across the open fields.
Only after the regiments were under cover in the villages did the
enemy’s guns pay them any attention. Little or no damage was done.
At half past four in the afternoon the brigade left the villages and
advanced in line of battle, forming a great crescent with Temple Hill
between the two points. The left moved swiftly over the furrowed fields
among sheaves of giant millet, while the right descended into the deep
bed of a shallow stream and presently appeared on the plain. I need
not tell again the story of that splendid advance. Forty guns opened
on the lines, yet on they went, quietly and steadily, now kneeling to
return the rifle fire from the road under Temple Hill: now at a double.
At last they came to the foot of the hill, having driven North the
remnant of the first line of Russian rifles. The 16th regiment on the
left was a little in advance and fought its way up the hill, suffering
heavily from shrapnel. A private was the first to reach the temple and
had climbed several feet up the stone wall when a shell scattered his
brains. His bayonet--bent, broken and bloody--stuck fast in the wall.
In this assault the brigade had 937 casualties, most of them during
the advance across the fields. Though every shell killed or wounded
several, the men never paused to look back.
While this assault was in progress Colonel Shimada was ordered to seize
a rocky, hog-backed height to the North. The force under his command
was only two companies, one battalion and two companies having gone to
the aid of the Matsunaga Brigade. A new battalion was therefore given
to him, and the Colonel advanced toward the village of Sanchautsu,
North-east of Bastion Hill. Behind him in a long, thin column marched
his men. Arriving within rifle range of the village they deployed and
went quickly forward.
Sanchautsu is a long, straggling collection of stone houses sheltered
by pine trees, on the fringe of which appeared a strong force of the
enemy. Breaking through the left flank of this line Colonel Shimada
entered the village at the head of his men. Here the fight waxed more
and more furious, for the Russians had taken cover in the native houses
and had to be driven out with the bayonet. Near the middle of the
village stands a wine shop--a large, stone building with an extensive
compound surrounded by a high, stone wall, loop-holed for defence
against bandits. In this compound were many Russians. Mounting to the
roof of the next house the Japanese opened fire and drove them into the
wine shop. Ladders were then brought, and while the Japanese scaled
the wall the enemy fled. The sun was setting when this terrible fight
ended, and left us in possession of Sanchautsu and the rising ground to
the north.
Before dawn on the 12th, Bastion Hill was taken by the Matsunaga
Brigade, and General Okasaki advanced from Temple Hill toward the
hog-back of rock that runs North into a horse-shoe cluster of high
hills. Only a few Russians remained in the trenches and Rocky Hill was
easily captured, but when the sun rose and the morning mist cleared,
the enemy’s guns concentrated their fire on the position and many were
killed and wounded. The Japanese sought shelter in a pine grove on the
left slope and remained there all day. On the right flank the situation
was the same and the troops continued in their positions, awaiting the
advance of other forces with which they had to co-operate. Thus ended
the 12th day of October. That night the Matsunaga Brigade was ordered
East to fill the gap between two columns on the right flank, where the
position near Ponchiho was extremely critical.
A forced march was necessary lest the enemy should discover this
weak point in our defence and break through. Making tripods with
millet stalks the men lighted fires and cooked their rice. Fifteen
minutes after receiving the order they were on the road. The night was
intensely dark and cold; a storm of sleet and hail overtook them and
they lost their way. Yet before dawn the brigade reached the foot of
Chosen-lei, fifteen miles South-east of Bastion Hill, and the gap was
covered. Overcome with fatigue of hard fighting and hard marching the
weary soldiers lay down on the cold ground and slept. Their leader did
not close his eyes that night.
Walking in the darkness among the prostrate ranks, General Matsunaga
felt with pride that he need have no fear of the morrow. Men who slept
so soundly holding their rifles in their hands at the foot of a hill
occupied by an unknown force of the enemy might be depended upon in
any emergency. At daybreak a few rifle shots sounded the alarm. Up
sprang the brigade ready for action. A regiment of Russians appeared
on the hill. They were evidently amazed to find Japanese soldiers
where not a sign of them was visible at sunset. The enemy had no guns,
whereas the brigade had two field-pieces, which opened fire and drove
the Russians from Chosen-lei. A cause of great anxiety was thereby
removed, and our line of defence was materially strengthened.
On October the 13th the Okasaki Brigade was ordered to take the enemy’s
position on the horse-shoe cluster of hills to the north of Temple
Hill. The foot hills were already in our possession, but the difficult
task remained. In a former chapter I have described the attack as I saw
it from a neighbouring height. At dawn the brigadier detected a few men
on the nearest peak, and sent a young officer--Lieutenant Shima--with
two sections to learn who they were. Ascending the slope, Lieutenant
Shima found the enemy’s trenches empty, and was about to return when
there suddenly came round the corner of the hill a large group of
soldiers. In the dim light of early morning he was unable to discover
whether they were Russians or Japanese.
“Who are you?” shouted the officer. Rifles replied and instantly the
Japanese, dropping into the trench, prepared for the attack which they
knew would not be delayed. The Russians approached in overwhelming
numbers and a fierce fight ensued. Of these two gallant sections
and their officer not a single man remained alive or unwounded. But
help was at hand. First a company and then a battalion rushed to the
rescue and the first position was won. Here the Japanese awaited the
development of an attack on the Russian flank, but the plan miscarried
and for hours they were exposed to heavy artillery fire from which they
suffered severely. The situation grew desperate, yet the brigade clung
to the slope.
Lieutenant-Colonel Nihira had foreseen the extreme difficulty of the
task and realised that the chances of living through it were small.
Before placing himself at the head of his battalion he took out of his
pockets all confidential papers and the portraits of his children,
which it was his custom to hang upon the wall of any house in which he
might be quartered. Having burned these papers and photographs he led
his men forward to the hill where he halted for a moment to impress
upon them the importance of their mission and urged them never to turn
their back upon the enemy. Colonel Nihira was greatly beloved by his
men and they vowed to follow him to the death. At three o’clock the
second height was stormed and then came the final struggle. For three
long hours the men lay on the slope while shrapnel thinned their ranks
and shells sweeping over them fell among the enemy’s rifles on the
crest.
Seeing the terrible position of this battalion General Okasaki sent to
its aid another battalion commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Taniyama
who arrived only in time to learn that his gallant friend and comrade
Colonel Nihira and most of his officers had fallen in the fight.
Dashing out of the trench, Colonel Taniyama cried: “How can I alone
remain alive!” and would have hurled himself into the fire swept zone
had not his men dragged him back into the trench.
The death of Colonel Nihira and of so many comrades roused the men to
frenzy. Two companies sprang from the trench and rushed forward up
the hill. I have told how they were rolled back and how they returned
like an ever diminishing wave until at sunset I saw against the grey
sky line a struggling mass of men shooting, bayonetting, wrestling and
stoning one another. At six o’clock the hill was taken and the slope
was slippery with blood. It bears the name Nihirayama, or Nihira’s
Hill, in memory of a brave soldier. One battalion lost all its officers
save two, and of the other battalion only five officers survived.
Even now the day was not ended though the sun was sinking below a
crimson horizon. The enemy was still entrenched in a strong position
stretching due East from the plain under Nihirayama. Against this hill
a regiment of the Okasaki Brigade was moving from a grove on the slope
of Nihirayama, seventeen hundred metres from Lengesan--the name of the
Russian position. To reach its destination the regiment had to descend
the slope and cross the open fields under a heavy cannonade. Between
the two positions is a grove of pines in which the Japanese found
shelter after their first dash. In a few minutes they came out and ran
to the foot of the hill. Many fell in the advance, but the survivors
struck the enemy hard on the left flank, and there was another of those
awful hand-to-hand fights which one recalls with a shudder.
In the end the Russians fled with their guns. Twice men and horses with
the batteries were shot down, and twice they were replaced under fire.
Had the right flank of the Japanese been as fortunate as the left,
these guns would have been added to the trophies of the seven days’
fight.
This is the short record of the Okasaki Brigade. It is typical of the
Japanese infantry, and will serve to show what the unhappy Russians had
to contend against.
Chapter XL
TO PORT ARTHUR.
The reader is now asked to transport himself on the magic carpet of
his imagination to that great fortress at the Southern extremity of
the Kwantung Peninsula, whose occupation by Russia must be regarded
as the _fons et origo_ of the war. I have already described how
little the Mikado’s strategists suspected that Port Arthur was capable
of prolonged resistance against determined and repeated assault;
how materially their plan of campaign would have been modified had
their calculations been more accurate; and yet how essential it was
to their complete command of the sea that this ice-free port should
pass into their hands. It was on October 8th, a month after his
retreat from Liao-yang, that General Kuropatkin exhorted the army in
Mukden to renewed efforts, by the assurance that the time had come
for a triumphant advance, and that the Czar had at length given him
a sufficient force to command victory. But we know that the dismayed
and distracted Ministers at St. Petersburg had commanded the General
to strike one last despairing blow for the relief of the fortress. We
know, also, that on the following day Field-Marshal Oyama was obliged,
by the seriousness of the Russian movements, to engage in battle,
although his own desire had been to refrain from action until the
expected news of the fall of Port Arthur had arrived. In their estimate
of the garrison’s capacity for further resistance, the Russians were
more correct than their foes, for had he carried out his predilection,
Oyama would have lingered in his position till the dawn of the New
Year. As will be shown in the following chapters, the condition of
the stronghold was by no means so desperate as was imagined by friend
and enemy alike; and, as a matter of fact, the surrender, when it did
come, was, in the opinion of many competent to arrive at a verdict,
premature, and not the occasion of sheer necessity.
The Japanese in Manchuria, however, seemed confident that the end
was at hand. One heard the capture spoken of as an impending event,
that might any morning prove to be a reality; and I have little
doubt that in the background of the Field Marshal’s schemes lay the
expectation that he would soon receive the welcome reinforcement of
General Nogi’s legions. I owe it to the exceptional kindness of the
military authorities that they fell in with my request to be allowed
to detach myself from General Kuroki’s command and to turn my steps
southward. When we correspondents were released from the wearisome
and exasperating detention in Tokyo, and were at length allowed to
land in the theatre of war, we were given clearly to understand that
each must remain with the particular command to which he was allotted,
and that any attempt to break away and attach himself to a different
portion of the army would render one liable to condign punishment,
in the form of a restricted or cancelled permit. These conditions
involved less of a lottery than might, superficially, appear to be
the case, for the scale of operations was so gigantic that there was
fair reason to hope that everyone would witness a good share of the
fighting. Some might miss this engagement and some that, but as it was
evident that every available Japanese soldier would be required at one
point or another, there was not much risk of being left ingloriously
on lines of communication, or of eating one’s heart out in inaction
when stupendous doings were being enacted at another part of the area
of warfare. Still, I must own to a peculiar sense of gratification
when the permission arrived for me to proceed to Port Arthur, and need
hardly say that I lost as little time as possible in availing myself of
the privilege. Of course, it entailed the loss of witnessing the fierce
struggle before Mukden--even a war correspondent cannot be North and
South at the same time--but I had seen my share of the fighting between
the armies in the field, and was confident of the result. The surrender
of Port Arthur was a far more important and stirring episode in the
history of the war than another defeat, on however grand a scale, of
Kuropatkin’s gallant but disheartened soldiers.
I will not delay the narrative by describing my progress south to
General Nogi’s command. Suffice it to say that fear lent wings to
my feet--fear, lest I should arrive too late. But, however eager my
desire to proceed with all speed, the means available, the state of
the country, and the war conditions prevailing, did not conduce to
rapid travelling, and I arrived almost on the eve of the surrender,
and counted myself highly fortunate in doing so. My credentials at
once obtained for me the kindest reception from General Nogi and his
Staff, and I was privileged to be an eye-witness of the proceedings
that attended the handing over of the proud fortress to the triumphant
Japanese. Of the awful fighting that for months preceded the final act
it is not my duty to speak. The assaults by land and sea, the mines
and counter-mines, the spade work above ground and below, the gradual
advance of the trenches, the nearer approach of the crescent of siege
artillery, the ferocious bayonet struggles in attack and defence, the
ghastly stories of empalements on merciless stakes, of destruction of
life by grenade and bomb, of living bodies torn to shreds on barbed
wire entanglements--these have been described by other pens, wielded by
those who have the authority of personal knowledge. I simply present to
the reader the record of my own experiences.
Chapter XLI
THE SURRENDER
The first day of the New Year was drawing to a close when a Russian
officer came riding toward our outposts. A Cossack mounted on a shaggy
pony carried before him a flag of truce. Their appearance at such a
moment not less than the grave looks of the young soldier betokened
business of importance. Halting at some distance from the enemy’s lines
the Cossack sounded a parley, and a Japanese officer whose keen eye had
followed every movement of the strangers went out to meet the envoy of
the besieged fortress. He returned with a letter in his hand, and the
Russian ensign rode back to Port Arthur.
[Illustration: Russian Warship on Fire, Port Arthur.]
New Year’s Day is a Japanese festival, and even in the camp of the
investing army custom held revel. Visits were made and hospitalities
exchanged, while comrades fought their way up Bodai and looked down
from the shattered peak into the quivering heart of the city. None
dreamed that the long struggle was ended, and that the gallant
defenders were preparing to lay down their arms. At dawn a strange
stillness descended upon the narrow peninsula. Under the burden of
silence, hills that for months had been charged with volcanic energies
shrank into mounds of brown earth, and valleys and gorges that had
pulsated with the sound of Titanic combat became mute as the grave.
It was a new land in which we awoke--a land of unnatural silence that
seemed full of portent. What had happened? Was this weird calm the
precursor of a hurricane or was it the end? We wondered as we walked to
the village where General Nogi had his Head-quarters.
“Port Arthur has fallen!”
That was the greeting. Not a trace of exultation! The Staff Officer
might have been announcing a fall in the temperature. “Port Arthur has
fallen!” The words sounded incredible. Even the most hopeful had looked
forward to one more month of sapping and mining, and had seen in his
mind’s eye the last glorious stand of the garrison sworn to make the
fortress its tomb. But the silence was convincing. The end had come
with amazing suddenness, and the walls of the “impregnable fortress”
had fallen, like the walls of Jericho, at the blast of a trumpet.
The letter brought to the Japanese lines under the flag of truce made
known General Stoessel’s decision:
“Having regard to the state of affairs at the seat of war generally,
I find that further resistance in Port Arthur is useless, and with a
view to avoid fruitless loss of life I would like to negotiate for
the capitulation of the fortress. If your Excellency agrees to this
proposal I beg you to appoint delegates to discuss the order and
conditions of surrender, and to name a place where my delegates may
meet them.”
General Nogi received this message at eight o’clock on New Year’s
night. He read it with astonishment, for he, too, believed that the
garrison would not surrender until the last fort had been taken and
the last shot had been fired. Only three days before General Stoessel
had convened a council of naval and military officers of the highest
rank, and had laid before them the true state of affairs. The council
was attended by twenty-two officers, and nineteen of them insisted on
continuing the struggle. Three were in favour of making terms with
the enemy. Among these was Col.--now General--Reiss, Chief of General
Stoessel’s Staff, who feared that if the resistance was prolonged and
the city was carried by assault there would be a repetition of the
incidents of 1894, and the remnant of the garrison would be massacred.
General Reiss was not popular with his comrades, and his fears were
denounced as a slander on a brave foe. The council separated under the
impression that its decision was final and that the conflict would be
continued with vigour.
It was with amazement and consternation that the officers received
orders on New Year’s day to destroy the ships in the harbour and to
blow up one of the forts. General Stoessel had resolved to surrender.
General Nogi knew nothing of this council of war. He was, however,
not ignorant of the fact that since the death of General Kondrachenko
resistance had weakened and dissention was rife among the leaders of
the garrison. Nor did it escape his notice that the proposal to discuss
the terms of capitulation was undated, and had probably been written
some days before. Next morning at four o’clock the answer was sent
to the Russian lines under a flag of truce. General Nogi agreed to
negotiate, and appointed as delegate the Chief of his Staff, General
Kosuke Ijichi, with whom were associated Major Yamaoka, Chief of the
Intelligence Section, Captain Tsunoda, Commander Iwamura, Dr. Ariga
and Mr. Kowazu. The conference was to be held at noon on the second of
January in the village of Suishiyei. “The delegates on both sides are
to be invested with full powers to sign the capitulation, which shall
take place immediately after signing and without waiting for further
approval.”
From camp to camp ran the rumour of this momentous decision, and was
received with shouts of “Banzai!” But the dominant note was relief
rather than exultation. A great burden had been lifted, and men
breathed more freely when they realised that the long struggle was
over, and that Port Arthur had surrendered without a last and bloody
sensation.
Suishiyei was once a prosperous Chinese village between the fort ridges
and the mountains on the North. Twixt the hammer of Japan and the anvil
of Russia it had been pounded into a heap of stones, out of which rose
blackened gables and one solitary group of thatched cottages.
To this ruined and deserted hamlet came the delegates of General
Stoessel and General Nogi. They passed through a broad gateway--which
bore in Japanese characters the legend, “The road to peace”--and
vanished from the gaze of a few casual spectators. Plum Tree
Cottage--named after its owner--was a straw-thatched hovel consisting
of two small rooms, which until a few days before served as a
field hospital. Here the delegates met at noon. General Reiss, who
represented the Russians, rode from Port Arthur with a small escort
of Cossacks, and was accompanied by three colonels, the captain of
the Retvisan, Count Ballascehoff, head of the Red Cross Society, a
lieutenant and a midshipman. General Ijichi and General Reiss having
shaken hands and exchanged compliments, presented their comrades, who
conversed through interpreters. At twenty minutes after one o’clock the
terms of capitulation were handed to General Reiss, who was invited to
remain with his colleagues and to read over the documents. One hour was
allowed for their perusal. Before the Japanese delegates retired to the
adjoining room they were asked if the conditions were final. General
Ijichi replied that they were final, but that he would gladly listen to
any suggestions. The delegates then separated.
The conference was renewed at half past two o’clock, when General Reiss
made several proposals and inquiries. He asked that the soldiers and
sailors might be allowed to return to Russia; that the horses in Port
Arthur should not be handed over to the Japanese; that each officer
should be allowed one orderly; that the buildings of the Red Cross
Society should remain the property of the Society and should not be
changed; that a telegram might be sent to the Czar requesting leave to
accept parole; and that a certain amount of personal baggage should be
permitted to each officer. The battle ships and cruisers, he said, had
been destroyed, and the regimental colours had been burned, so that
none of these could be surrendered.
General Ijichi replied that the soldiers and sailors must be treated
as prisoners of war; that the horses must be handed over; that each
officer would be allowed one orderly; that the buildings of the Red
Cross Society would remain untouched; that a telegram would be sent to
the Czar provided it was written in English; that officers would be
allowed to take with them personal baggage equal in amount to that of
Japanese officers of the same rank.
While these points were under discussion a message arrived by telephone
from General Nogi’s Head-quarters to the effect that a serious fire
had broken out in Port Arthur, and that some deserters from the forts
had passed beyond the enemy’s lines. General Ijichi warmly protested
against such conduct, and threatened to break off negotiations if
there was any further attempt at destruction of property in Port
Arthur. A letter was accordingly written and despatched to General
Stoessel, who immediately took steps to prevent any further acts of
incendiaries. At half past four o’clock the conference ended, and
messages were despatched to General Nogi and General Stoessel asking
for a suspension of hostilities. The armistice began at thirty-five
minutes after four o’clock on the second day of the month; five hours
later a telegram was sent to the Czar, the delegates dined together,
and fair copies of the terms of capitulation were made in English and
Japanese.
The negotiations were conducted in English, the midshipman who
accompanied General Reiss acting as interpreter for the Russians. At
a quarter to ten o’clock on the same night General Reiss and General
Ijichi signed the articles of capitulation, and Port Arthur passed out
of Russian control.
Committees of Russian and Japanese officers were appointed to carry out
the conditions of capitulation, and to attend to details concerning
the persons and properties of residents in the city. On the following
day Captain Tsunoda called upon General Stoessel to invite him to
meet General Nogi, and to inform him of the message sent by the
Mikado commanding that the garrison should be treated with generous
consideration, and that officers should be permitted to retain their
swords.
General Stoessel was anxious to know the whereabouts of General
Kuropatkin, from whom on October the 6th he had a letter saying that
he would soon come to the relief of Port Arthur. Toward the end of the
same month he received another communication to the effect that General
Kuropatkin had made his attempt and failed. Chinese spies none the less
reported that the relieving force was already in the Kinchaw peninsula.
“Where is Kuropatkin?” asked General Stoessel.
Captain Tsunoda replied that he did not know, though he believed him to
be somewhere in the neighbourhood of Mukden.
Thereupon the General took out a map, and pointing to the Sha-ho
remarked that General Kuropatkin must be near that river. “Is it not
so?” he asked.
Captain Tsunoda replied: “Yes. He was defeated by the army of
Field-Marshal Oyama near the Sha-ho, and was compelled to retire after
losing between fifty and sixty thousand men. Russians and Japanese are
now facing one another on the banks of that river.”
General Stoessel’s next inquiry was after the Baltic fleet. Where was
that?
Captain Tsunoda replied that according to newspaper accounts the fleet
had not yet passed the Cape of Good Hope.
At this news General Stoessel looked grave and said with emphasis:
“Now that Port Arthur has fallen it is useless for the Baltic fleet to
come.”
Invited to state what had caused the greatest loss and inconvenience
to the defenders, General Stoessel immediately declared that it was
undoubtedly the shells of the eleven inch howitzers. Since the arrival
of these guns the defence works were practically useless. Speaking of
men the General said that he had strongly opposed General Sakaroff’s
plan of constructing a harbour and dockyard at Dalny before the
fortification of Port Arthur was completed. When the Japanese fleet
attacked in February last he was filled with alarm, as the forts were
only half ready and the garrison was between two and three thousand
men. If the Japanese had known they might have walked into Port Arthur
at that time.
General Kondrachenko was killed by a shell in North Fort. According
to every naval and military officer with whom I have spoken, General
Kondrachenko was the heart and soul of the defence. He was everywhere,
and his influence was felt on all sides. In devising schemes of defence
his ingenuity and energy were unfailing. He was to be found always
in the thick of the fight, yet no detail escaped his vigilance and
his resource, while his industry and his contempt of danger appeared
boundless. With Kondrachenko’s death the story of the brave defence of
the fortress ended. There was none to take his place. General Stoessel
might well speak of him as a hero.
Referring to the origin of the war, General Stoessel declared that
from the first he was opposed to hostilities. “Some people,” he
added, “believe that Admiral Alexieff was the real cause of the war. I
deny it. Alexieff never wanted war. We were both in China during the
Boxer trouble and knew the qualities of the Japanese troops. In that
expedition the lion’s share of the work was done by the Japanese and by
my Third Division.”
The real cause of the war, in General Stoessel’s opinion, was the
ignorance of the Russian people (_sic_), who knew nothing of the
fighting capacity of the Japanese. As for himself, he remarked that
he ought to be in the North with his division. He praised highly the
pluck and patience of the Japanese soldiers. The artillery he did not
consider good at first, though he had since recognised its excellence,
especially in concentrated fire. The General went on to speak of his
own experiences. “I have served in three wars--in the Turkish war as a
captain and Staff officer, in the Boxer expedition, and at Port Arthur.
I have been thrice wounded. This time a splinter of a shell wounded me
slightly on the forehead. I have served my country well, and desire
nothing more than to end my days in the country with the members of my
family.”
Chapter XLII
THE TWO LEADERS.
General Nogi is a grim old warrior--a silent, sombre, passionate man.
Every line of his spare figure and dark face, and every hair of his
grizzly beard, stands for strength and energy and resolute will. That
is one side of his character graven on the forts of Port Arthur. There
is another side. When General Nogi grasps your hand and holds it fast,
the stern warrior vanishes, and you are in the presence of a courtly
soldier whose eye beams benevolence. A frank, cordial man, toward whom
you are drawn as to an old friend.
Thus he appeared to General Stoessel when victor and vanquished met
amid the ruins of Suishiyei. “I had not expected to meet so pleasant a
gentleman,” was the comment of the Russian commander. “He seemed more
like a friend of long standing than the leader of a hostile army.”
The meeting took place in the cottage where the capitulation of the
fortress was signed. General Stoessel came early. The officer appointed
to escort him galloped through the fragments of the village in vain
pursuit. Hot and breathless he arrived to find that the General had
dismounted and was already in Plum Tree Cottage. General Nogi followed
in due time. Firmly seated on a prancing bay he looked a born leader.
Ten years had been lifted from his shoulders since the morning of the
New Year.
Of the interview between the two soldiers I shall not repeat the
details. It was characteristic that the first words should be of the
Emperor to whose “illustrious virtues” are ascribed all victories.
General Nogi made known his Sovereign’s command that the officers who
had gallantly defended the citadel should be treated with the greatest
consideration. “It is his Imperial desire that you should retain your
swords.”
General Stoessel was grateful. “By the kindness of your Emperor the
honour of my family is preserved, and that of my comrades.” Alluding to
the death of two sons of General Nogi, the Russian commander observed:
“It is this readiness to sacrifice all on the altar of country that
makes the Japanese so formidable in war.”
Smiling, after the manner of Japanese when speaking of a sorrow of
their own, General Nogi was glad that the lives of his children had not
been given in vain. One was slain at Nansan, the other on 203 Metre
Hill. “Both these positions were of supreme importance, and my sons
died well.”
At the close of the interview General Stoessel asked the Japanese
leader to accept his favourite charger.
The offer was courteously declined on the ground that all spoils of war
were the property of Japan. “I could not think of accepting so valuable
a present for myself.” He promised, however, to receive the horse
on behalf of the Army, and to see that it was treated as became the
charger of a gallant soldier.
The Russian commander seemed astonished at this self-denial, but
appreciated the motive that inspired the refusal of his gift. When they
came out of the hovel General Stoessel mounted his white Arab and,
exhibiting its paces, rode back to Port Arthur. As he passed from the
compound into the street his glance rested for a second on a burial
party. They were exhuming the bodies of comrades who had laid long in
the shadow of the cottage.
A week later--on the 12th--I saw General Stoessel once more. He was
no longer on horseback. His herculean frame was wedged in a drosky
and he was on the way to Dalny. In seven days he had grown older. His
heavy face wore a strained and anxious look, and he had the manner of
a man whose thoughts were not in the present. Such a look I have seen
on the face of one who had gone through a fierce ordeal and was still
doubtful of the issue--the face of a man waiting for the verdict. He
was accompanied by his wife--a big, matronly woman--whose motherly eye
glanced over a procession of orphans each armed with a doll. Madam
Stoessel was in black, and over her head was thrown a black shawl. It
was a pathetic little group, though somehow it reminded me of Mrs.
Cronje, wife of the famous Boer general, who also in like circumstances
showed a fine contempt for feminine adornments. The railway platform at
Choreisei was crowded with smartly-dressed Russian officers and ladies,
several of whom were in mourning. The long line of open trucks filled
rapidly with baggage and soldiers and sailors on their way to prison in
a foreign land. They appeared to have no anxiety save that which arose
from the risk of being left behind. General Stoessel shook hands with
some of his comrades and embraced his aides-de-camp, kissing them on
both cheeks. As soon as he entered the saloon carriage the signal was
given, and, amid profound silence, the defender of Port Arthur vanished
from the scene.
A veil of mist lay over the narrow peninsula on the morning of the 13th
when I crossed the mountain range for the last time, and, descending
into the valley, reached the main road to Port Arthur. Carts laden
with personal baggage and droskies carrying Russian officers and
ladies--healthy and cheerful--passed me on their way to Choreisei.
Soldiers were mustering for review, and hills that for ten days had
been silent as the grave awoke to a new and resounding life. Grim
objects slipped by unheeded--trenches, barbed wire-entanglements,
_chevaux de frise_, _trous de loups_, bomb proofs. They looked like
familiar landmarks, and had ceased to be engines of death. At the gate
leading to the Old Town stood a Japanese sentinel keeping watch over a
park of field artillery. We crossed an open space guarded by immense
earthworks, and came at last to the town of long narrow streets and low
houses. The shutters were closed and the place was deserted save for a
few hospital nurses and children.
As we approached the harbour we began to realise that we were in a city
that had been bombarded and besieged for one hundred and forty-eight
days. Nearly every building bore marks of violence. When shells had
been merciful, fire had not spared. A dusty heap of stones and charred
beams out of which stuck the fragments of a printing press, revealed
the sudden close of newspaper enterprise; and Sikh watchmen, who smiled
a welcome to the English _sahib_, kept ward over smouldering shop
and warehouse. Havoc reigned close to the harbour, which had been
shelled from sea and shore. In the narrow dock lay the Amur--an inert
black mass: and in the broader waters beyond were piled up battleships
and cruisers that had swept the Eastern seas and defied the might and
majesty of Japan. Maimed they were and broken, like warriors sorely
wounded in battle--not dead, but sleeping with their armour laid aside.
Crossing the bridge over a lagoon we peered into a submarine armoury.
The shallow waters were paved with rifles and shells, and we felt that
we had discovered the secret of the failure of ammunition, and the
surrender of only thirty-five thousand small arms.
[Illustration: What we found in Port Arthur.]
[Illustration: What we found in Port Arthur.]
The New Town has none of the characteristics of the old. It is
essentially new and Western. Trim villas and great edifices of brick
and stucco rise from wide open spaces in which you can breathe and
move. Here the damage was not apparent, and you had to look long and
closely to discover traces of bombardment. Yet there were signs and
tokens in the Red Cross flags that floated over every palatial building
to tell of wounds and suffering that remained after glory had departed.
There was no time to investigate. Already the head of the column was
in sight, and General Nogi and his Staff had taken their places to
witness the march of the victorious army. For nearly two hours there
passed before us a procession of sturdy men in long khaki coats, with
bayoneted rifles over their shoulders. A German drill sergeant would
have wrung his hands in despair. Even General Nogi was driven to use
language that sounded expressive to foreign ears. Truth compels me to
state that the Japanese look not well on parade. They are for use, not
for show. Yet the sternest of martinets could not have withheld his
admiration. They were soldiers every inch of them, and have proved it
on many a bloody field. If they stepped high, if their faces flushed,
if a proud and disdainful look came into their eyes as they glanced
toward their great leader--who will find fault with their alignment
and the regulated order of their march? I have seen the soldiers of
many nations, yet none have impressed me more than these men who are
worst of all on parade. And the flags--the regimental flags. There was
a romance of war hidden in the folds of every one of them that swept
proudly past before uncovered heads. Some looked as if they had just
been broken to the breeze; others were mere rags clinging to bare
poles. I would that I could tell you the story of each scar--how many
brave men died in defending them, and how again and again they were
snatched from dead hands to flout defiance in the face of the enemy.
[Illustration: General Nogi enters Port Arthur.]
[Illustration: Breech of Japanese Siege Gun, Port Arthur.]
At the close of this eventful day chance threw me in the way of
some Russian officers, with whom I talked of the defence of Port
Arthur. Upon one subject all were agreed--that General Stoessel was
a man without real strength of character, who never visited the
fortifications, and was always influenced by the presence of his wife
and by the Chief of his Staff--a man whom the late Mr. Parnell would
have described as “very good for afternoon tea parties.” Without
hesitation, they declared that had General Kondrachenko lived the
fortress would not have surrendered for at least one month. “He was
the heart and soul of the defence, and with his death came the end.”
Their faith in the natural strength of Port Arthur seems to have been
destroyed. The first line of forts was, in their opinion, too near to
the town; the forts were not masked; the guns were badly placed, and
made excellent targets: the siege guns were not in turrets as they
should have been; there was no head cover for the gun detachments;
the bomb proof covers close to the parapets were insufficient; there
were no covered lateral lines of communication; there was not enough
observation points; the reverse slopes of the hills were under indirect
fire, and gave no cover for men or guns; the second line of defence
was too close to the first, and was practically useless. These are a
few of the points upon which experts will dispute for years to come.
Russian officers who were in Port Arthur are not likely to be moved
by these controversies. They have learned from bitter experience that
Port Arthur was not impregnable, and believe that time will again
demonstrate the fact.
Chapter XLIII
WHY DID GENERAL STOESSEL SURRENDER?
It may seem ungenerous to attempt to pluck a few leaves from the
laurels that adorn the brow of General Stoessel. But even contemporary
history--ever indulgent toward splendid failure--ends by groping for
the truth. When paeans are exhausted and the defender of Port Arthur is
arraigned for criticism, his reputation is in danger of the reaction
that follows a surfeit of praise. The Japanese, who are generous
apologists of an enemy that kept them at bay for five months, wonder
why the fortress surrendered. Knowledge of the stores of ammunition and
food in Port Arthur and of the conditions of the garrison has satisfied
them that the city might have been defended for another three months.
Even Russian officers--military as well as naval--admit that they might
have struggled one more month.
[Illustration: Japanese marching into Port Arthur.]
[Illustration: Snapshot of Madame Stoessel.]
The capitulation of a fortress is justifiable on four grounds. The
purpose for which it is maintained may cease to exist; its defences may
be so weak as to lay it open to immediate capture by assault; its
ammunition and food may be exhausted; and the condition of the garrison
from wounds and sickness may turn the balance of humanity against that
of military expediency. Each of these reasons has been advanced in
support of the surrender of Port Arthur. Let us consider them in the
order of their importance.
Had the purpose for which the fortress was defended ceased to exist?
Port Arthur served two objects. Primarily it was a naval base, and
the hope of Russia was that the battleships and cruisers in its
harbours would in due time raise the blockade and co-operate with the
Baltic fleet. To this end, according to Admiral Wiren, the remnant
of the Pacific squadron sought to preserve its existence by avoiding
engagement with the overwhelming force of the enemy. The capture of
203 Metre Hill and the consequent destruction of the ships removed
that hope and with it one purpose of the defence. There was, however,
another object of almost equal importance. No one who was familiar with
the conditions in Manchuria could doubt that the retention of Port
Arthur seriously embarrassed the operations of Field-Marshal Oyama. It
robbed the Japanese of the fruit of victory at Liao-yang, and reduced
them to three months inactivity before Mukden. Every day that General
Stoessel held out brought reinforcements to General Kuropatkin, and
kept from him an army of one hundred thousand men experienced in the
most desperate school of war. For that reason General Stoessel ought
to have kept his flag flying over Port Arthur until the last shot had
been spent.
Were the defences so weak as to lay the fortress open to capture by
assault? General Reiss, Chief of the Staff, and, probably, General
Stoessel himself, held that opinion, and sought to avert the horrors
of a citadel taken by storm. The situation at the moment of surrender
may be briefly described. On the morning of December 31st the Japanese
destroyed Sungshushan at the Western extremity of the Eastern fort
ridge--the centre of the main line of defensive works. Sungshushan
occupied a strong natural position, though it was under fire from the
supporting fort and could be enfiladed from Idjesham--also a strong
fort--and from Antzushan, a battery position, across the gorge of
Suishiyei valley. These three positions remained to the last in the
hands of the Russians. Late in the afternoon of the 31st the Japanese
advanced from Sungshushan and seized the battery position, known as
Eboshiyama, to the rear of the fort. At the same time the 9th Division
made an assault on the Chinese wall, breached it near East Panlung,
and, pouring through the gap, drove the enemy along the trenches to the
neck between H. fort and Bodai, or Wantai. Before midnight General Nogi
was in possession of all the higher hills of the fort ridge from East
Panlung Westward to Sungshushan, except the supporting fort. On the
first day of the new year the assaulting force was under the battery
position of Bodai--a lofty height on the narrow peak of which were
posted two six-inch guns. Again and again this hill was stormed, and
was finally carried with a brilliant rush.
From Bodai the Japanese looked down over the second line of defences
into the heart of the city. During the night of January 1st--after
negotiations for the capitulation had begun--when the Russians were
busy exploding their battle ships with torpedoes and sinking small
vessels at the entrance to the harbour, the Japanese advanced from
Bodai to the back of East Keekwan. At two o’clock next morning the
enemy blew up several mines in the concrete foundations of that fort
and reduced it to a heap of _débris_. At dawn of the day on which
the capitulation was signed the Japanese held the Western half of the
Eastern fort ridge from East Keekwan to Sungshushan, and were firmly
established along the centre of the main line of defensive works.
The second line of defence has been described as “strong”--a term
that can hardly be applied to a line of entrenched hills dominated by
the fort ridge in possession of an enemy. The fact is that experience
revealed serious defects in the natural strength of Port Arthur. In
some respects the Russian line was admirable for defence. It had a
clear field of fire, excellent observation points, and commanded mutual
support among the forts. But it had one grave and incurable defect. The
line of forts was too near to the city, so that magazines, workshops,
supply depôts, and barracks were under constant fire from the line of
hills parallel to, and only four thousand yards from, the forts.
The question whether, under these conditions, the citadel was in
immediate danger of capture by assault is one upon which experts will
differ. It must, however, be borne in mind that the Japanese were not
likely to renew the attacks that ended so disastrously in August and
September. Experience had taught them to temper the bayonet with the
sap and the mine. They had reconciled themselves to a scientific siege,
and would not easily have been tempted to abandon this slow yet sure
method for the hazard of another series of hand-to-hand encounters.
Had General Stoessel been resolute to resist to the end there were
positions still capable of defence that could have been reduced only by
weeks of sapping and mining.
I come now to the chief reason assigned by General Stoessel, General
Reiss, and naval and military officers, with many of whom I discussed
the subject:--That ammunition and food were running short. Except in an
official report of General Stoessel, it was never pretended that these
supplies were exhausted. The Japanese declared that when they entered
Port Arthur they found one of the principal magazines untouched. This,
Russian officers emphatically denied. They asserted that the only
shells were those in the forts, that there was no reserve of heavy
ammunition, and that the magazine contained nothing save shells for
small quick-firing naval guns. Of powder and rifle cartridges they
acknowledged that there was a limited supply, and the shallow waters
of the harbour showed that many shells and rifles were deliberately
thrown away. Official statistics published by the Japanese gave the
number of shells left in the fortress at 82,670. We were not told
whether they were for heavy or for light guns, though we may fairly
assume that the greater part were for heavy artillery. Moreover the
Russians were able to make use of the eleven-inch howitzer shells of
the Japanese, a small proportion of which remained unexploded owing to
the nature of the soil where they struck. The difference in the rifling
of the Russian and Japanese guns made these shells available. Of rifle
cartridges there remained 2,266,800, together with over thirty tons
of powder, and the means of converting it into small-arms ammunition.
These supplies cannot be described as great, yet they would have
sufficed to prolong the defence for at least one month.
Food was abundant, and it can never be maintained that the garrison
was on the edge of starvation. Some figures put this contention out of
court. There were in Port Arthur at the time of surrender--1,422,000
lbs. of flour, 4,400 lbs. of barley, 176,000 lbs. of crushed wheat,
2,970 lbs. of rice, 30,800 lbs. of mealie meal or maize, 132,000 lbs.
of biscuit, 77,000 lbs. of corned beef, 770,000 lbs. of salt, 44,000
lbs. of sugar, 1,375,000 lbs. of beans, 1,900 horses in fine condition,
and 50,000 roubles in cash. In the naval depôt were five hundred tons
of biscuit, 250 tons of new flour--brought one month before by the
“King Arthur”--400 tons of flour of earlier import, 40 tons of sugar, 2
tons of butter, some barrels of salt beef, 75,000 tons of Cardiff coal,
15,000 tons of briquette coal, and 55,000 tons of Japanese coal.
There was an almost inexhaustible store of vodka, beer, champagne and
other wines--“too great a store,” was the significant comment of a
Russian admiral. Tobacco, cigars and cigarettes were in abundance.
No private stores were commandeered, and civilians who had foresight
or money suffered no privation--fresh beef, pork, poultry and other
luxuries being obtainable at a price. The poor, for the most part,
lived on black bread and tea--a diet not less nutritious than that of
the Japanese soldiers, and one to which the Russian peasant and soldier
is well accustomed. There was no lack of water, and vegetables alone
were wanting.
The civilian population, which included five hundred women and
children, looked in good health, and readily admitted that they had
suffered little or nothing from disease or scarcity of supplies. Only
seventy-five, including Chinese, had been killed or wounded by shell
fire--about one-third of the number of civilians injured by casual
shell fire in Ladysmith. It is due to the garrison also to state that
every officer with whom I spoke made no pretence of having suffered
from failure of food supplies. When a Russian officer admits so much
you may rest content that he lived in comparative comfort. The men who
marched to Pigeon Bay and thence to the railway station showed no
signs of starvation. Many had just been discharged from hospital, and
nine thousand five hundred had been almost continuously on duty in the
forts. Yet they were able to march nearly twenty miles and to bivouack
in the open. I could not help contrasting their appearance with that of
the garrison in Ladysmith during the last days of the siege. When Sir
George White sent a few companies of picked men to try and cut off the
retreating Boers, the men were able to walk only three or four miles
and had to be carried back to Ladysmith.
There remains the fourth justification for surrender--a justification
that may be pleaded by humanitarians, but not by those who believe that
the first duty of a commander in the field is toward the living and
not toward the dead and dying. The condition of the sick and wounded
in Port Arthur was undoubtedly deplorable. Yet it was not so terrible
as the first Russian statements led us to believe. In his despatch to
the Czar, dated December 28th, General Stoessel wrote:--“The position
of the fortress is becoming very painful, our principal enemies are
scurvy, which is mowing down men, and eleven-inch shells which know
no obstacle, and against which there is no protection. There remain
only a few who have not been attacked by scurvy. We have taken all
possible measures, but the disease is spreading. The passive endurance
of the enemy’s bombardment, the eleven-inch shells, the impossibility
of replying for want of ammunition, the outbreak of scurvy, and
the loss of a mass of officers--all these causes diminish daily the
capabilities of the defence, and the tale of losses of higher officers
is an indication of the enormous losses we have sustained.” At the
conference which arranged the terms of surrender, Count Ballaschoff,
chief of the Red Cross Society, stated that in the hospitals were over
twenty thousand sick and wounded, for whom there were neither drugs nor
bandages. That number was afterwards reduced to fifteen thousand. At
the same time we were told that when communication with the North was
broken the garrison in Port Arthur--exclusive of naval men--numbered
35,000; that between fifteen and sixteen thousand had died during the
siege, and that there remained only between nine and ten thousand
combatants, of whom five thousand were effective. We were also informed
that fifty per cent. of the officers had been killed, and that only
twenty-eight officers had passed through the ordeal unscathed.
It is impossible to reconcile these statements with the ascertained
facts. Exclusive of those in hospital there actually surrendered 28,562
soldiers and naval men, not counting volunteers. They are accounted
for thus:--Generals, 8; field officers, 57; officers below field rank,
531; officers in civilian branches, 99; surgeons, 109; chaplains, 13;
non-commissioned officers and men, 22,434--total for the army, 23,251.
Admirals, 4; captains of ships, 100; lieutenants, 200; chaplains, 7;
sailors and marines, 4,500; civilian officers of the navy, 500--total
for the navy, 5,311. In addition to these were 3,645 men described
as non-combatants, all of whom had either served in the army or
were liable to be called to the colours, and most of whom had been
volunteers during the siege. With few exceptions these 32,207 men were
able to walk twenty miles to the railway outside Port Arthur, and to
endure the exposure of a winter without bivouack without any apparent
suffering. Moreover, when it became known that they were to be deported
to Japan four thousand patients quitted the hospitals, fearing, as one
of their own officers did not scruple to say to me, that they might be
released and sent back to the war!
These figures--even more than the appearance of the prisoners and their
capacity to perform a long march--show that the conditions of the
garrison was not so terrible as it was represented by the Russians.
Among the sick and wounded the suffering was great--as it must always
be in an invested and bombarded city--and General Stoessel may have
succumbed to the imperative calls of humanity. History will pronounce
judgment upon his action, and will, doubtless, say that it was at least
premature. Meanwhile, the impression must prevail that the last days
of Port Arthur were less glorious than the first, and that it was the
General, and not the garrison that surrendered.
Chapter XLIV
JAPANESE GUNS AND HORSES.
In all respects, save one, the Japanese field guns are inferior to the
Russian. They have a shorter range; their projectiles are lighter; they
are less mobile, and they are not quick firers. Their one claim to
superiority is the high explosive used in the common shell. The battle
of the Yalu is, perhaps, responsible for the extravagant estimate
of the Japanese artillery. But it must be borne in mind that in the
bombardment of April 30th it was howitzers, and not field guns, that
wrought havoc with the Russian positions, and that on May 1st the
Russian guns fired only six shots.
[Illustration: Horse-shoeing extraordinary.]
The Japanese are a practical people, and acknowledge their inferiority
in this arm. In the Japanese army there are nineteen regiments of
artillery, each under a colonel. Five of these are mountain and
fourteen field, and their combined strength is one hundred and fourteen
batteries of six hundred and eighty-four guns. Each battery is armed
with the seven-and-a-half centimètre steel gun made at the Osaka
Arsenal. Field and mountain guns are of the same calibre and take
the same shell, though the difference in length, charge, and range
is considerable. The tangent sight of the field gun is graduated up
to 6,200 metrès, and that of the mountain gun to 4,300 metrès. The
projectile of each gun weighs about eleven pounds, and the guns are
not quick firers, though the recoil is reduced to a minimum by means
of drag-shoes under each wheel. The time fuse in field and mountain
guns can be set up to a range of 4,800 metèrs; the ammunition is
not “fixed,” but the cartridges are contained in brass cases, with
percussion caps in the base.
So much for the gun which may be described as inferior--except as
to the time and use--to the gun used by us in South Africa at the
beginning of the war.
The mobility of the field artillery is seriously affected by the
inferior quality of the draught horses. As we saw on July 31st one
division was able to bring into action only thirteen field guns,
notwithstanding the use of double teams. The horses are small and badly
trained, and the march of the artillery in mountainous country is slow.
These defects in material are not altogether neutralised by the skill
and coolness of the gunners, who handle their weapons with the utmost
confidence, and are clever in selecting a target as well as in aiming
and laying the guns.
In the use of common shell the Japanese have departed from the usual
practice of European artillery. There have, it is true, been occasions
when they were forced to employ common shell instead of shrapnel,
because of the limitations of the time fuse. But experience in
Manchuria, as in South Africa, has shown that the effect of shrapnel
is over-estimated, and that common shell with an explosive as powerful
as that invented by the Japanese is often more destructive, even under
conditions that would suggest shrapnel to a European gunner.
At the battle of the Yalu the combination of common shell with shrapnel
proved irresistible against trenches and troops scattered as well as
massed. In the opinion of men qualified to pass judgment we ought
to pay more attention to the use of common shell, and should add a
considerable proportion of such shells to our field battery equipment.
This, I believe, will now be done, seeing that a new high explosive for
field use has been invented.
On the other hand, the Japanese might learn from us the advantage of
indirect laying of telescopic sights, of avoiding sky-line positions,
of not always waiting for the enemy’s fire, and of moving their guns
in action so as to give the infantry their full support at critical
moments of attack.
Many censures have been passed on the Japanese cavalry. It is only
fair to admit that these judgments are based on observation of a few
isolated units. No foreign _attaché_, and no foreign correspondent
has seen even a troop of cavalry in action or on patrol. This is not
a country for cavalry, as the Cossacks have found. In the absence of
evidence to the contrary it is impossible to avoid the conclusion that
the Japanese cavalry horse--like the artillery horse--is poor and
weak and badly trained; that his equipment is not made on scientific
principles, and that the Japanese are bad horsemen and worse horse
masters. Most of the horses that we see are stallions, and are noisy
and disorderly; the saddles are ill-fitting, and are often on the
withers of the horse; the seat of the rider is not well balanced; the
curb and snaffle are in constant use, even at a walk. The result of
these defects was a very large percentage of saddle galls and fistulous
withers.
Having said this much in condemnation, let me give the opinion of a
Japanese cavalry officer. There is, as we in Great Britain have long
known, no more conservative soldier than the cavalryman--none more
tenacious in upholding the traditions of the horse, the carbine, the
lance, and the sabre in war.
“You condemn our cavalry,” said the officer, “because they look poor
and small by the side of your European horses. Well, our infantry
soldiers are darker and smaller than the soldiers of Europe, yet they
do very well, don’t they?”
I had to admit this dangerous argument by analogy.
“Let me begin with the reputed defects,” he continued. “Our cavalry
horse averages between fourteen and fifteen hands, and weighs about
one thousand pounds. The average weight of a cavalry soldier, apart
from his equipment, is one hundred and twenty pounds. He can march
twenty-five miles a day, and on a good road can trot seven-and-a-half
miles an hour--a little quicker than the Russian horse, and a trifle
slower than the German. Judging by camps, the speed of the Russian
cavalry is not greater than that of our cavalry. Horses enter the
service when two years old; in the third year they are gelded, and
do not go into the ranks until the fifth year. They have, therefore,
three years training before they become troop horses. The object of
this preparation is to develop their speed, endurance, and carrying
capacity, to improve their physique, and to teach them habits of
obedience. In the ranks they are neither quarrelsome nor noisy, and one
dismounted man can easily control twelve or thirteen horses. I admit
that there is a large percentage of sore backs, but in that respect
we are not alone. In the Boxer Expedition I noticed that the British
and German cavalry horses suffered from sore backs. At the same time
I acknowledge that our twenty per cent sore backs is very high. This
is due partly to the structure of the Japanese horse, partly to the
seat of the rider, to the shape of the saddle, to the bad roads, and
to the constant changes of speed. Our saddle is not well made and is
still ill-fitting. The Russian saddle is much better; it is lighter and
more convenient; the numnah is attached to the saddle, and there is
comparatively little weight thrown on the withers of the horse. In the
Russian cavalry there are few sore backs. The Japanese soldier is said
to be always tugging at the reins. This is, no doubt, true, but our
horses do not hold up their heads like foreign horses.”
I ventured to suggest that this self abasement might be cured by not
tying up the horses’ heads between their legs as the habit is in Japan.
“As to our horses and the possibilities of improving the breed. Our
original stock came from Korea.”
Having had some personal experience of the vicious little brutes that
pass for horses in that Peninsula, I am not altogether surprised at
their descendants in Japan.
“The first attempt at improvement was made in Hokaido, where we
introduced the American trotter and French horses from Anam, as
well as a few Hungarians. The American and French horses proved
failures. The breeding of horses for the army is under the control
of the Agricultural Department--a great mistake, in my opinion, for
that Department is apt to judge a horse by a standard other than the
military. The Imperial Household Department has two stud farms--one
in Shimosa and the other in Sendai. The Agricultural Department also
has two stud farms in Kyushu and Osher, and has introduced the English
hackney, the English thoroughbred, and the Anglo-Arab--a breed of pure
Arab improved in England. These horses are distributed among the stud
farms with mares from the several localities. To prevent deterioration
of the stock, regulations have been made as to gelding, but owing
to the outbreak of war these regulations have not been rigorously
enforced, nor has proper care been taken in the selection of brood
mares.
“The organisation for the supply of military horses is simple. There
is a central depôt, with branches in Nokaido, Sanbogi, Rokurhara,
Kaijiyasawa, Shirakawa, Taisen and Takahara. At these branch depôts the
horses are trained and prepared for service. There is, of course, some
difference of opinion as to the best horses for improving our stock,
but the judgment of the majority is in favour of the English hackney,
the English thoroughbred and the Anglo-Arab for cavalry, and the
Anglo-Norman for artillery.
“Our horses remain in the ranks for eight years. Their feed is ten
pounds of barley and five pounds of grass, or failing grass, three
extra pounds of barley. In camp they are fed three times a day and on
the march twice a day. The diseases from which they suffer are anthrax,
pneumonia, and indigestion. In one division fifteen horses died from
eating poisonous grass, and two hundred from indigestion, due no doubt
to the hard barley diet. I forgot to say that it is estimated that in
Japan--which as you know is a mountainous country cut up into paddy
fields and therefore not adapted to horse exercise--there are 1,280,000
horses, of which, perhaps 300,000 are stallions, and that the yearly
product is about 100,000.”
“My deliberate opinion,” added the Japanese colonel, “is that comparing
one squadron with another the Japanese cavalry will not be found
inferior to the Russian. Hitherto we have had no opportunity of
testing our capacity in actual conflict. Here among these mountains
we can fulfil none of the duties assigned to cavalry except those
of reconnaissance and of guarding the flanks. When the army was
concentrating at Anju, we acted as a screen through which the enemy
could not penetrate to discover our force. Again at Wiju we covered the
army from Yongampho to many miles East, so that the Russians were never
sure of the point of attack. At Chonju the Russians had a big force of
cavalry, yet they did not even attempt to reconnoitre.”
Whatever may be my private opinion of the Japanese horse and his rider,
I am sure that, had a real occasion presented itself, there would
have been no lack of daring. The Japanese cavalrymen are very skilful
swordsmen; but they are wise enough to recognise that the rifle or even
the carbine is a more reliable weapon than the lance or the sabre. As
to the Russian use of the lance. The circumstantial report of a French
correspondent describing the annihilation of a Japanese squadron by the
lances of Cossacks was a pure invention. No incident of the kind has
happened. Only two Russian European regiments carry the lance, except
on parade, and even they appear to have left it carefully at home, for
not a single lance has been seen save in a General Officer’s escort.
As a matter of fact the only regiment that ever carries the lance in
Asia is the Cossack regiment in Turkistan. However deeply regretted
by Lancer and Hussar, this picturesque weapon may be relegated to the
museum of military antiquities, and take its place by the side of the
jingal and the halberd.
Chapter XLV
CHILDREN AND THE WAR.
Children are the true hero-worshippers, and it is their nature to set
up their high altar on the gory battlefield--the gorier the better.
If you want to fathom the depth of “original sin” in the hearts of
little cherubs who adorn the hearths of peace-loving citizens, you must
become a General and win a great victory. Then your mail-bag will come
with the seams burst, and the bulk of your letters will be in large,
sprawling characters, that bespeak much travail of soul and inking of
rosy fingers. You will have little worshippers and sweethearts in every
land, and proud parents will discover their innocent babes setting
forth in cold ink sentiments that might bring a blush to the cheek of
Catherine of Russia and fill the breast of Torquemada with envy. And
you will have to pay the penalty. A widow’s importunity is not greater
than that of the child whose mission is to write letters to the famous
soldier. You will have to employ a special staff of corresponding
clerks; to keep a stock of signed photographs on hand, and to beg your
friends to save all their old postage stamps, for the worshippers have
albums and no scruples.
Lord Roberts, when in Bloemfontein, showed me some of his children’s
correspondence. One letter I remember. It would have driven Dr.
Watts to a new verse, for it embodied all the terrors of the Spanish
Inquisition. This is how it ran:--“Dear Lord Roberts, I am glad you
have caught Cronje. Mind you keep him fast, and don’t let him escape.
Give him to eat everything he does not like, and then he will die.
Yours affectionately. P.S.--Please send me your photograph and some
stamps.”
I am reminded of this epistle from a Christian child--who, doubtless,
goes to Sunday school, and could recite the Ten Commandments--by
a letter addressed to General Kuroki’s Army from Harada Ishi, a
twelve-year-old girl, who attends school at Yotsuya, in Japan. “One day
I was taking a walk with my sister. Before the gate of a certain house
stood a very little girl--very nice looking. She had with her a little
dog, very pretty, and said to it:--‘Tama, when the war is over, my
father will bring back a Russian’s head and give it to you. So you must
be a good dog.’ When I looked up at the gate there was a plate with the
name Lieut.-Colonel Katsuda.” Thus the daughter, not of Herodias, but
of a gallant soldier in the Twentieth Century!
General Kuroki received many letters from juvenile admirers in all
parts of the world. Most of them seem to think that he understands
English and keeps an unlimited supply of photographs and foreign
postage stamps. Like Lord Roberts, he insists on an answer to all these
communications. Perhaps I ought not to have made known this weakness.
Lest he should suffer from my indiscretion, let me hasten to add that
the General is thinking of some automatic and mechanical device that
will give him time to attend strictly to the business of war.
The teachers in Japan hit upon an ingenious plan for diverting
the stream of missives into a wider channel. They invited their
scholars to send letters and drawings to the soldiers at the front.
With the aid of an interpreter, I have looked over a batch of this
juvenile correspondence. Some of the drawings are excellent, and
show originality as well as artistic ability. They might astonish a
drill-sergeant and make an artilleryman forget to load his gun; but
even then the Russians would have the worst of it, for in the pictures,
as in the field, one Japanese is a match for three “Ruskies,” and a
broom serves to empty Liao-yang and Port Arthur of the enemies of
Nippon.
About the letters it would be as hard to generalise as it would be
about the speeches of British members of Parliament when a General
Election is approaching. One thing only is certain. The girls are
better letter-writers than the boys, and a Japanese letter looks
infinitely more artistic than the most finished Italian hand. Some
of these epistles might be framed and hung upon the walls of our
drawing-rooms at home, in order to show how the characters which
Japan has inherited from China live and breathe, and have form. Their
contents are as varied as children’s faces.
Here is a letter from a boy in the Higher Grade School at Aoyama. Sato
Shoichiro evidently knows something of the origin of the War, for he
writes:--
“Russia is one of the greatest Powers in Europe. Her dominion extends
over one-sixth of the globe. She has an Army of nine hundred thousand
men, and a Navy of fifty warships. Ten years ago, when we won the
Liao-tung Peninsula from China, after great loss of brave men, Russia,
backed by Germany and France, told us that the Japanese occupation of
the Peninsula was harmful to the peace of the East. Therefore, we gave
back the Peninsula to China. Then Russia got a lease of Liao-tung for
ninety-nine years, entered Korea through Manchuria, and tried to press
upon Japan. After many negotiations war broke out. Since hostilities
began, Russia, one of the greatest Powers in Europe, has been beaten
repeatedly by Japan--a small country of the East. Not a single victory
have the Russians won on land or sea. Now Liao-yang has fallen, and
Port Arthur is expected to fall soon.”
Tanaka Sumi is a girl, and does not trouble her little head about
history, though she reads the newspapers. She is twelve years old, and
full of enthusiasm. “‘Extra Special! Latest Edition!’ The cry of the
newsvendor rings through the street. I always buy a ‘Special’ and show
it to my parents. They read it, for it contains news of victory. Our
soldiers are fighting, and endure all sorts of suffering and privation.
What fortune for us at home to have been born in such an age! Port
Arthur will soon fall. Then another ‘Extra Special!’ Such repeated
victories and no defeats are unexampled in history. We thank you brave
men of the Japanese Army and Navy.”
There is at least one little girl in Japan who wishes she was a boy.
“I am sorry for the soldiers. We are much obliged to you. I, too, want
to go to the front. But I cannot, for I am a girl. Please forgive
me.” Chikako Makino is a little Martha of ten years:--“I want to send
cakes and tobacco to those who have gone to the war for our country.”
Another ten-year-old, Masako Asada, also a girl, as you may guess,
writes:--“Thank you very much for fighting so bravely--fighting not
only with the Russians, but with a bad climate and with bad insects.
Thank you very much. Now it is getting cold. Please take care of
yourselves.”
Uyemura Kei is a poet and a philosopher, though only eleven years old,
and a girl. Her letter from Fujimi School is very pretty, and ought
to be treasured by the lucky soldier to whom it is given. “There is a
Japanese spirit, as there is an English and an American spirit. Each
has its characteristics. The Japanese spirit is pure and noble. It is
like unto the cherry blossom. The cherry blooms beautiful, and without
a breath of regret is blown to the winds of heaven. So we live and so
we die, counting as naught the life we give for our country. That is
the secret of victory. Japan is small, but every Japanese has this
spirit at his birth, and is ready to die for Emperor and Fatherland.
Therefore, great Russia is beaten.”
Sasaki Shinki, of Koto School, is only ten years old, yet he has some
of this spirit, and will one day fight for his country. “Japanese
soldiers are ready to lay down their lives for loyalty. They have the
Japanese spirit, and, therefore, win every battle. When we grow up we
want to be soldiers and fight for Fatherland.” Little Miss Nagata,
who is nine years old, doubtless, speaks the mind of many tiny mites
in kimonos who had fathers and brothers at the war. “You are all
very strong. So you always win victories. I am glad of it. I hope
the war will soon be over and you will come home.” Kamoshita Kan, a
seven-year-old boy of Bancho School, is a confident prophet, for he
writes:--“You fight for Emperor and for us. You are victorious always.
Very soon you will go to Harbin, and the Sun-flag will wave over that
city. Then I will shout ‘Banzai!’ for the Emperor.” Yoshida Ryukichi,
another seven-year-old boy of Mikawadai School, ought to make a good
Special Correspondent under rigorous censorship:--“When Japanese
advance, Russians flee. Some Russians are captured. The Czar is crying.”
Here is a letter from a sympathetic little miss, Nakagawa Tomiyo,
first-year girl in the Lower Grade School at Awaji:--“Soldiers,
give victory to Japan. I am glad. Soldiers, you must be tired. I
sympathise with you.” Ten-year-old Yamaguchi Ume, of Okachimach,
writes:--“Soldiers are working hard. Not much water to drink. Never
complaining: ever striving: ever loyal to Emperor. Ah, how I admire
them!” These children’s letters all breathe the spirit of patriotism,
and it must be acknowledged that in the expression of that spirit the
girls are more eloquent than the boys. Kobayashi Fumi, twelve years of
age, who is at Bancho School, writes:--“In Manchuria the weather is
foul, and the enemy are said to be quite brave. But by your patient
labour and courage we win victories, for which we have to thank you
heartily. We admire the glory of our Emperor and the brave deeds of our
soldiers. Whenever we hear the cry, ‘Extra Special,’ we jump for joy,
and at the same time pray for your safety. It is getting very cold.
Please, honourable soldiers, take good care of yourselves and come back
to Japan with honour and glory.” Kishimoto Toshio, though only twelve
years old, is a thoughtful little fellow, and has a care for those who
are stricken in battle. “The Red Cross Society has hospitals for the
sick and wounded in the field. In Japan it originated with a so-called
philanthropic association during the Civil War. It is proper to help
soldiers without making any distinction between friend and foe. Both
are brave men, fighting for their country.”
The thoughts of the children turn naturally to rejoicing, and there are
many descriptions of popular festivities after the news of victory. I
give one example, from Aoki Ume, who writes from Honmura School:--“I am
a girl student of the Second Year Grade School. I am told by my teacher
to write you a letter. When I was thinking what would interest you
most, news came of the fall of Liao-yang. Then the citizens of Tokio
assembled to celebrate the victory. Every street filled with flags
and lanterns, and the night became as bright as day. The lights were
reflected on the flags. It was very beautiful. We owe you much, for
these nice scenes are the result of your victories. Banzai!”
Chapter XLVI
COMRADES AT LAST.
AN INCIDENT OF BATTLE.
I tell the story as it was told to me by an officer of General Kuroki’s
Staff. On a bare hill-top, strewn with the debris of war, lay fourteen
wounded soldiers. Through the long, hot day they had fought, and now
the tide of battle swept on, leaving them like wreckage cast up by an
angry sea. Eight were bearded men and six were smooth-faced Japanese.
The golden mist that glowed among the giant millet was tinged with
crimson. Night was about to add her terrors to the stricken field. As
the shadows stole up the mountain a strange fear crept into the hearts
of these men. Their eyes grew wide with dread at the sights and sounds
amid which they might sleep the sleep that knows no waking. Darkness
could not hide the horrors that had burned into their brains. To each
grim detail the waning light gave new and awful realism. Dead eyes
looked out from under the peaked caps: the broken bayonets bled: grisly
hands held the paper fans: crimson gashes gaped under the red shoulder
straps: skeleton fingers turned over the stained page of pocket book
and diary: fountains of blood welled out of rent garments and linen
bands and strips of cloth that anguished hands had pressed into riven
flesh: writhing forms covered the purple stains: livid arms rose from
the red earth and beckoned to the common grave: the fragments of shell,
the spent bullets, the empty cartridge cases and shattered rifles
roared and hissed and spluttered and flashed--all the nameless horrors
of the battlefield took shape and sound in the twilight.
A great fear fell upon the survivors and drew them together. It was a
slow and painful muster. Shot through the legs, Sato crawled to Tanaka,
whose foot had been shattered by a shell. With one arm hanging limp,
Yamada tore a sleeve from his shirt and pressed it against a hole in
his side. Nakamura had a bullet in his brain, and lay on his back
sobbing out his life through frothing lips, about which the flies made
dark, deep lines. A shot had entered Matsumoto’s right shoulder, passed
through the muscles of his back, come out at the waist and lodged in
his cartridge pouch. His foot slipped in a pool of blood, and he fell
upon a Russian, kneeling with rifle clasped in his arms. The figure
lolled over and rested at the feet of a soldier, with rigid arms
stretched to Heaven, whose face was a crawling mask of buzzing flies.
Kimura was mopping the blood from his brow, and had ripped up his
trousers to dress a wound in his thigh.
At last the muster was complete, and the little group of Japanese began
to attend to one another’s injuries. The Russians were less seriously
hurt and assembled more quickly. Sato had taken off his putties and
was binding them round his leg, when he saw the eight bearded men.
Instinctively he looked round for a rifle, but Tanaka laid a hand on
his arm. “Don’t you see that they too are wounded?”
Sato went on winding the putties and took no more heed of the enemy.
The minutes dragged on: the golden mist vanished from the millet fields
in the valley, and a thin line of crimson stretched along the horizon.
An awful silence brooded over the hill--broken only by the sputtering
of foam from the open mouth of dying Nakamura.
Having dressed their wounds, the men began to look about them, and
presently the eyes of the two groups met. A few hours before they
were seeking each other’s lives. They remembered the mad rush, the
blistering heat of rifle, the thrust of bayonet, the wild shout,
and the crimson wall that rose out of the earth and crushed them
into darkness and oblivion. Long and earnestly they gazed, each
striving to read the other’s thoughts. Many stories they had heard of
atrocities--of murder and mutilation and horrors of which men speak
in whispers. The Russians were eight and the Japanese only five, for
Nakamura did not count, being as a dead man. Would they fight: would
they wait until the night and steal upon them unaware: did they see how
sorely stricken were their enemies: would they avenge the slaughter of
their brothers?
To these inward questionings they sought answer in the faces turned
toward them. “They look very fierce with their great beards, but their
eyes are gentle.” It was Tanaka who spoke--he who had checked the
impulse of his comrade.
“They are brave men,” added Kimura, who had bound his leg and was
whisking the flies from the mouth of Nakamura. “Yesterday, when we
stormed the hill, the Russians made a counter attack. They were led by
a young officer who fought like a lion for his whelps. He fell, pierced
by many wounds, and was about to hand his sword to Lieutenant Katsura,
but our officer motioned to him to put back the weapon and said: ‘No, I
cannot take from a Samurai his soul.’ The Russian understood. He was of
the Samurai.”
“Let us beckon to them to come over,” suggested Tanaka. “They will then
know that we have no evil design.” The signal was given, and the eight
bearded men came without hesitation. Gravely saluting, they seated
themselves on the ground by the side of their friends--the enemy. Of
one another’s language they understood not a word. But speech is a
habit, and is not to be suppressed merely because it is useless. The
men talked, and their voices grew louder and louder, as voices are apt
to do when they produce no impression. When your words are simple and
clear it is hard to distinguish between ignorance and deafness. After a
time the visitors fell back upon signs, but to the Japanese signs are
as unintelligible as Sanscrit. Then they began to examine one another’s
wounds, and shook their heads over the prostrate body of Nakamura,
whose breath came in sharp gasps through bubbles of foam. Kimura put
his hand into the pocket of his tunic and drew forth a book. It was a
manual of conversation in Russian and Japanese--a collection of formal
phrases and stilted sentences, such as no sane lips would ever frame.
Yet they served, for presently Kimura and one of the Russians were
busily turning over the pages and putting their fingers on words that
seemed to embody the wisdom of the ages and the needs of the moment.
Before night came these men were comrades, sharing their black bread
and rice. Sympathy gave them understanding, and though they spoke in
unknown tongues it was established beyond doubt how many had left wives
and children to pray for them in distant homes. Tanaka, with much
labour and many searches through the manual, asked one of them if he
was not glad to be wounded, seeing that he might return to his family
and escape the perils of war. But Sato reproached him for suggesting
that their Russian comrade was wanting in patriotism and would shelter
himself behind a wound.
Thus the hours wore on, and night spread her veil over the ghastly
forms that lay scattered over the hill-top and in the trenches. Very
soon the wounds began to grow stiff, and fever ran like fire through
their veins. Nakamura’s sobbing had ceased, and his face was rigid
in death. Kimura rambled in his talk and cried for water to quench
the fires within. Sato lay back, and would have groaned in his agony
but for the presence of his comrades--the Russians. They understood,
for one of them rose, and taking three wooden bottles, pointed to the
valley. He would fetch water for his comrades--the wounded Japanese.
Now every man in that little group knew the risk of such an enterprise,
for he was aware that the hill was in dispute, and that Russians and
Japanese were watching for any sign that might betray the presence of
the enemy. The Russian soldier walked to the brow of the hill, and
looked cautiously about him. Nothing was to be seen save the forms of
dead men and the blackness of the valley. Though he stepped warily,
his feet often slipped in pools of blood, and stumbled into holes dug
by high explosive shells. His comrades watched him disappear over the
crest, and waited. The minutes passed with painful slowness. Not a
sound broke the stillness. He must have reached the foot of the hill.
Even now he might be filling the water bottles from the shallow stream
below. Perhaps he was returning, and this terrible thirst would end.
They strained their ears to catch the first sound of a footfall. What
was that? A shot rang out, and pierced the darkness like an arrow that
quivered in their hearts. Then all was silence again. The wounded men
held their breath and listened. No sound came from hill or valley, and
they feared greatly for the brave man who had risked his life. Long
they watched and waited, none daring to give voice to his fears. He
would never return, for in the valley he lay close to the stream, with
a bullet through his heart.
Kimura’s ravings had lapsed into unconsciousness, and Sato moaned
aloud. From the little group rose another figure, stalwart and bearded.
Without a word or a sign he departed. His comrades seemed unconscious
of his movement, yet they felt that he had taken upon himself the agony
of their thirst. He passed from the hill and vanished in the darkness,
following the steps of his comrade. Hope revived in the breasts of
those who watched and waited. Surely, he would return. Harm could not
come to a brave man who risked his life for his enemy. Again that
terrible note--sharp and clear--the note of a Russian rifle. He, too,
would never return. The bullet of a comrade had dyed the stream with
his blood, and the half-filled water bottles floated by.
The survivors on the hill watched no more. Night hid their suffering
and their sorrow. At dawn some Japanese scouts moved cautiously up the
slope, and from the brow of the hill saw the six Russian soldiers. Two
shots whistled over their heads--three, four! The Japanese knew the
sound, and shouted to their comrades. The firing ceased, and the story
was told.
Two nameless Russian soldiers rest in one grave, and on a wooden cross
is written in Japanese:
“COMRADES AT LAST!”
APPENDIX.
GENERAL FUJII’S STUDY OF THE RUSSIAN ARMY.
General Fujii, Commandant of the Staff College and Chief of General
Kuroki’s Staff, wrote this interesting study of the Russian soldier, on
the eve of the war. I commend it to the attention of military students
as a valuable psychological document and a model of direct and terse
expression.
“Our enemy is he who burned the city of Moscow and conquered the great
army of Napoleon by cold, and hunger, and exposure; who fought against
China with the allied forces of England and France, and who in 1877
defeated the Turks. For nearly thirty years Russia has encountered
no foe, so that Europe knows nothing of her fighting capacity. It is
clear, however, from careful study of former wars and from the present
organisation, training, discipline, and _morale_ of the soldiers,
as well as from the education of their officers, that the Russian
troops are by no means so good as many critics imagine.
Let me point out their good and bad qualities:--
The training of the men is too formal. Lack of initiative and of
independent action is the weakest point of all their officers, if we
except the Staff and the officers of the Guards who are a little better
in that respect.
The physical strength of the men is great--especially in their legs;
their shooting is not very bad; their discipline is maintained not by
training so much as by the remnant of feudal influence, yet they are
not in any way chivalrous. They are, in short, imperfectly educated,
strongly religious, and a naïve sort of people. Therefore, if there be
a great hero to lead them and set them an example in the field they
are not men to fear death, as was seen at Plevna, where they piled
up corpses for earthworks and dashed into the enemy’s trenches. Yet,
if they meet any little reverse they are at once terrified and panic
stricken, and run away in confusion. It is, therefore, necessary to
frighten them at the beginning, whenever we meet them.
Strength and courage are their characteristics in battle, and we must,
therefore, always be cool and careful, and never venture on any rash
movement.
Attacks on a small scale they like to make in the night or at dawn.
They appear to have little practice in independent firing, and are fond
of firing volleys at any distance. Such firing is not very effective.
Sometimes they occupy a position on the enemy’s flank and try to
enfilade. This they call a ‘rifle fort.’
If they have even a trifling success they will strive to take the
utmost advantage of it. We have to remember always that they must be
beaten at the outset, however slight may be our victory.
Their outposts are usually stationed at a considerable distance from
the main body, especially when they occupy a defensive position.
Their infantry often charge with the bayonet--but they have little
skill in the use of the bayonet, and none at all in individual
encounter.
Their infantry is not clever in making use of natural objects for
cover, and fights awkwardly in uneven and mountainous country, though
on the plain it is very clever.
Russian cavalry and sometimes infantry when retreating set fire to the
villages, so that we cannot expect to find shelter and supplies in
places they have evacuated.
The Cossacks often attack transport trains and lines of communication,
and it is always necessary to keep close watch on both flanks. If once
successful in these attacks they will make many attempts.
The Cossacks made no heroic movement in the war of 1877, and their
reports were always exaggerated. They invariably retire when met by
a stronger force. If our infantry is a little careful we need have no
fear of the Cossacks.
A Russian battery consists of eight guns; they have few mountain guns.
In the war of 1877 their artillery was not able to accomplish much.
When at war with the Turks their higher officers were jealous of each
other’s success and fame; often they could not agree upon strategic
plans, and were accordingly unable to make simultaneous movements of
many divisions under one command. Notwithstanding that the Russians had
a greater force of cavalry than the Turks they could not prevent the
enemy from bringing supplies into Plevna.
Amid the snows of Shipka Pass the infantry suffered terrible hardships
and yet made a terrific assault, but this was because the defeat of the
Turks was no longer in question.
The Russians sometimes try to carry out the wildest plans; and we must
neglect no point however impossible of approach it may appear.
In 1877 the men endured hardships well; the officers did not.
So changeable are the feelings of the Russians that though at one
moment they may be in the depths of despair, a trifling success will
make them bold again and remove all fear of their enemy.
In the war with the Turks there were many mean-minded Russian officers
who placed their personal interest and comfort beyond every other
consideration.
The Russians often endeavour to draw their enemy to a short distance,
and then open a terrible fire of rifles and artillery. In occupying a
position they pay little attention to their communications.”
This estimate of the Russian army, adds General Fujii, is derived
“simply from what I have read and heard. It is, of course, essential
that we should take advantage of their weak points and avoid their
strong points. Their troops are by no means anything to be afraid of,
yet it would be a mistake to under-rate them. The execution of our
plans must always be after more than sufficient reconnaissance and
preparation, but, once begun, the battle, in whatever circumstances,
must be carried right through until the enemy is crushed.”
RUSSIAN ESTIMATE OF THE JAPANESE SOLDIER.
From this Russian study of the Japanese army I make the following
extracts:--
“The Japanese soldier is short in stature; his physical development
is imperfect, but his frame is healthy, and though a trifle slow in
action he is ingenious and quick of understanding. Light hearted and
ingenious, his chief qualities are perseverance and unselfishness. He
can march great distances on very little. His wants are few because
of the extreme simplicity of his home life. During the Boxer trouble
in 1900 some of the Japanese papers complained that the soldiers
were required to do long marches with heavy equipment, and were
much exhausted. The Japanese are a military race; they take readily
to a soldier’s life and adapt themselves easily to discipline,
non-commissioned officers and men observing even the minutest detail of
their training and discipline.
The training of the Japanese Army is modelled on the German system
of 1880, with some modifications. The infantry, whether in company
or in battalion, are clever in manœuvring; their movements are rapid
and precise, and they have wonderful capacity for marching. Their
non-commissioned officers are soldiers of some years service; they are
intelligent and ingenious, and are capable of dealing independently
with situations as they arise. Their company commanders are intelligent
and skilled in the management of men.
Japanese cavalry horses are very poor, weak, and badly trained, and are
not quiet in the ranks. Every man rides after his own fashion, and,
generally, his seat is neither well balanced nor easy. Curb and snaffle
are used all the time; the speed of the horses is not well regulated,
and the horses do not trot. On the march they do not keep together.
These defects show that the Japanese have no good cavalry instructors,
and are not trained in the management of animals. This is due partly to
the physical character of Japan, which has few wide plains, and offers
few facilities for horsemanship. The cavalry equipment is not uniform,
and is not scientifically made. The saddle is often on the withers of
the horses, so that when they move quickly the riders are much shaken,
and the animals develop saddle galls and fistulous withers.
The material and equipment of the artillery are fairly good. The
horses, however, are small and badly trained, and on the march the
batteries--especially those of later invention--are slow. The gunners
are clever in handling their weapons, in loading, aiming, and selecting
a target. They are wonderfully cool, and handle their guns with the
utmost confidence, but in training and discipline they are inferior to
the infantry. In shooting, their accuracy is about the same as our own.
The infantry march in column of fours; the cavalry in column of
threes, and the artillery in single column. The average speed of a
detachment of these arms is from four-and-a-half to five Russian miles
an hour. Twenty-five paces separate battalions; forty paces separate
regiments. They march in large bodies, their columns extending over a
great distance, a halt of from one-and-a-half to two hours being made
in each march. In war, the Japanese send in front an independent body
of horsemen, usually the whole of the cavalry attached to the column.
The advance guard consists of about one-quarter of the infantry, from
one-seventh to one-third of the artillery, a company of sappers, and a
troop of cavalry. From this is drawn the vanguard--a small detachment
of infantry and cavalry. The “point” is composed of specially selected
cavalry, and sends out patrols to the front. They have neither flank
guards, nor fixed patrols. Occasionally they send patrols to examine
the locality and to report upon the character and topography of the
district. As in the Russian army, the duties of the advance guard
vary with the force that follows, with the distance marched, and the
physical features of the country. When the advance guard of a division
is in hilly country, it always sets out one hour earlier than the main
body. The component parts and order of a column are as follows:--As
point, a small body of cavalry--about half a squadron--followed
by a large body of infantry, all the artillery, the rest of the
infantry, the engineers, and the bridging sections, followed by a
small rearguard. One or more divisions advance along several roads,
and the advance guard is sent from one column--generally the central.
Connection among columns marching in the same direction is very weak.
When retiring, the formation is the same as when advancing, though the
retirement is covered by a rear guard, whose strength and distance from
the main body are the same as those of an advance guard in an advance.
Five or six military cyclists are attached to each regiment, and do
the work of orderlies and patrols. Sometimes cyclists are with the
advance guard or with the point. In a country like Japan, where roads
are good and horses few, there is room for military cyclists to compete
with mounted orderlies. The first baggage follows the regiment; the
second baggage is two miles behind the rear guard. A divisional train
is divided into two lines, the first line of wagons being a day’s march
from its main body, and the second line two days’ march behind the main
body.
In choosing quarters the Japanese are nearly always indifferent to
their distance from the enemy, and to any other circumstance. The
infantry are placed in front, then the artillery, and after these the
cavalry and transport trains. The advance guard is stationed about one
mile from the main force, and goes into quarters. The soldiers, when in
quarter, never undress.
In the service of security, from one to several companies of infantry
are used. Each company sends out a small number of sentries, who are
posted at a distance of two miles from the main body. About half a
mile behind these is a larger number of sentries. Each post has three
men, one of whom patrols a short distance in front of the post. From
the picquets patrols are sent along the line of sentries. Picquets and
patrols--large and small--go into quarters, but are ready for battle
at any moment. When the post of an advance guard reaches the line of
sentries, the men engaged in the service of security rejoin the main
body.
The duties of reconnaissance and cavalry patrols are the same as in
the Russian army. Their reports are usually very detailed, accurate,
and trustworthy. When a cavalry patrol meets an enemy it takes up
a defensive position, but retires if threatened by a small body of
infantry. Japanese infantry patrols are clever in reconnaissance.
The method of fighting, as observed in manœuvres, is after this manner.
The fighting body of skirmishers, firing line and supports. There is no
separate support attached to these. Each company sends out skirmishers
to the number of two sections, and as they are not in extended order
they are practically in close order of one line with a short space
between the sections. In the firing line the men usually lie down and
take advantage of any cover. Non-commissioned officers and commanders
of sections kneel on one knee three paces behind the firing line.
The supports take their place from forty to fifty paces behind the
firing line, and when the skirmishers are stationary for some time the
supports kneel on one knee with the rifle close to the leg. Before
the firing line extends for an advance the officers go forward to
reconnoitre the ground and conditions, thereby exposing themselves and
offering a good target.
When a company of infantry is ordered to take a position it advances
in close order, and on reaching the position sends out skirmishers,
but has no flank guards. Infantry fire is independent or by volleys.
Volley firing is adopted at long range, independent fire within a
thousand paces. Fire discipline is regulated by company and section
commanders, who point out the target and give the range. Their estimate
of distances is often wrong. Independent firing is ordered by whistle
of the company commander repeated by non-commissioned officers. In
sighting and loading their rifles the men are quick and accurate. To
reinforce the firing line the supports are added. The supports form
in extended order and fill up the spaces between the sections. If
additional reinforcements are needed the supports extend and move
forward between the companies which are already in extended order. When
still further help is required a part of the supports form a second
extended firing line behind the first line. In this case the first
line lies down, while the second stands or kneels. The reinforcement
of the firing line is very quick after the fight has begun. In short,
within a few minutes after the firing has commenced the skirmishing
line can be strengthened, and the firing line consists of many extended
lines; and all the supports are in action within twenty or twenty-five
minutes. In executing this manœuvre the fighting force must move in
front of the enemy, quite exposed, to extend its flanks.
We have observed that when on the defensive there is great confusion
if the flanks are threatened by a turning movement. In advancing, the
firing line moves at the ordinary pace until near the enemy, when the
advance is at the double. Rushes are made forty or fifty paces from
the enemy. Sometimes each body rushes forward independently. All the
supports double after the firing line, and the advance is usually
confused. The men crowd together and move forward obliquely, exposing
their flank. They seldom fire when advancing; the retirement of the
firing line is always disorderly and too quick; they do not fire until
they have returned to their original position.
To defend a position the infantry form a long firing line in extended
order, and the supports are quickly extended. When there is time
they dig trenches deep enough to enable them to fire kneeling. If
there is no time to make trenches they take cover behind the line of
defence, and each section sends out one man to a distance of twenty or
twenty-five paces to watch the enemy. The man remains kneeling until
the firing begins and then rejoins the line.
Japanese infantry never attack with the bayonet. They believe that
against the modern rifle, bayonet attacks are impracticable, and that
the issue must be decided by powder and shot. Accordingly they employ
rapid fire. The rapidity of the fire varies with physical features of
the country, and at distances of from three hundred to eight hundred
paces. The fire tactics in defence are as follows: When the enemy
approaches within eight hundred or three hundred paces, a special
signal is given and the firing line leaves the trenches, shouting,
“Yah!” fixed bayonets, advances forty or fifty paces. At the same
moment the supports draw near to the firing line, forming a second line
and open fire standing. Leaving cover the defensive force is exposed in
the open--an easy target for rifle and artillery.
The cavalry take little part in actual fighting, and rarely keep watch
on the flanks. They are always anxious to seek shelter behind the
fighting line, and do not take advantage of any opening to attack the
enemy. Even when they see an excellent opportunity they do not ride
rapidly forward, being more anxious not to fall off their horses than
to quicken their pace.
The artillery take up an independent position, and in defence of the
guns--about one third--are held in support. Generally speaking the
choice of positions is very bad, and the field of fire is very narrow
and limited. In the open field the artillery constructs empalements.
When advancing to a fighting position the order is not good; the speed
is slow and the guns are exposed to the enemy’s fire. After reaching
a position from three to seven minutes elapse before they open fire.
Though the firing is regular and orderly, though the gunners are brave
and the handling of the guns is cool and collected, the practice is
slow. The artillery does not change position during a fight, so that
it cannot give proper assistance to the infantry in attack. On the
defensive the artillery does not open fire immediately, even though
it may see an effective target, but waits for the enemy’s fire. The
ammunition wagons are placed near the guns, and the rapidity of the
fire increases more or less as the battle proceeds. In the fight at
Peichilii in 1900 the Japanese papers complained that the artillery was
generally unsatisfactory.
The engineers belong to the advance guard. They repair the roads and
lay the telegraph and telephone wires between the advance and rear
guards. The telegraph and telephone communications are quickly made.
The engineers do active work, taking the chief part in constructing
cover and empalements for the gunners. The work is done quickly and
looks substantial, though not always suited to the local conditions.
The chief characteristics of the different arms are summed up in these
sentences.
In defence they like to take a position with a wide range of front.
In offensive movements the order and position of the different arms are
the same whatever the conditions.
In marching, as well as in fighting, the flank guard is imperfect.
On the march the main body is separated by a long distance from the
advance guard, which, unaided, must engage the enemy for some time.
The objective in attack is not definitely pointed out.
They use their supports too quickly, and exhaust their strength to
repel the enemy when the latter attempts a flanking movement.
They do not recognise the necessity of continuing a fight until within
reach of the bayonet.
They avoid covered places, especially in mountainous country.
They make frontal attacks without attempting turning movements.
In defence they are at little pains to avail themselves of natural
cover, and are content with trenches and empalements.
When a retreat is ordered the main body of the infantry is first to
retire, then all the guns, and finally the remainder of the infantry.
They do not like night attacks or night marches.
In an army of more than two divisions each division has a commander, so
that there is no connection among the divisions, and the action of each
is independent.”
FINIS.
A. C. FOWLER, Printer, Tenter Street, Moorfields, E.C.
Transcriber’s Notes:
1. Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been
corrected silently.
2. Where hyphenation is in doubt, it has been retained as in the
original.
3. Some hyphenated and non-hyphenated versions of the same words have
been retained as in the original.
4. Where appropriate, the original spelling has been retained.
5. Italics are shown as _xxx_.
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