One day, something came along the road which neither Huang nor his captain had ever seen – tanks. ‘These giant machines crawled towards us like scorpions, with guns firing.’ Huang remembered it vividly. ‘When we saw one coming, we were so shocked we did not know what to do. We took to our heels and fled, and those who didn't became mincemeat.’ All the same, orders arrived from headquarters every day, telling them to hold on unswervingly so that they could eliminate the enemy with disciplined fire and powerful counter-attacks. ‘It was senseless, like throwing an egg at a stone.’ Old Huang threw up his hands. ‘We were worth nothing, pushed forward again and again just to die in waves. Then they built more turtle-shells on our bodies, advancing as we fell back.’
I had seen some remains of the blockhouses on the bus ride to Ruijin, perched on the hills. I was surprised that they had not been knocked down by peasants to build houses or pigsties. ‘There used to be quite a lot,’ said Huang. ‘They were really well built. You have to blow them up with dynamite – not something the Red Army had then or we have now. I don't know. Should we keep them? They are like graveyards. Every time I pass them, I feel as if a lizard is pissing on my spine.’
Was he not frightened then? He was only 14.
‘Frightened? I was scared to death. I wet my pants every day,’ Huang said without hesitation. He regretted he had not run away during the training week or on the way to the front. An older man from his village slipped away when he asked permission to relieve himself in the woods. From then on, they all had to do it in public, but people continued to run away. Of the 800 who trained with him, barely a third made it to the front.
Then it became harder to leave. There was one person in every platoon whose job it was to look out for ‘softies’, and it was old Liu in his. A strong man who was never short of a joke, Liu was almost like a father to him, always asking how he was. Once, when he was on night duty, Liu sat down with him and asked if he missed his parents, and Huang burst into tears. ‘Has anyone offered to take a message home for you?’ Liu asked casually while holding his hand. He blurted out that Uncle Huang, a distant relative in another company, mentioned it in passing a few days back. ‘Good boy.’ Liu patted him on the head and left. He never saw Uncle Huang again. He thought he was killed in the bombing until one day someone said to him, ‘Trouble comes from the mouth.’ Then he understood.
Huang was dying to go home – only fear of being caught stopped him. He was certain they would catch him if he returned home, and after disgracing him and his family they would send him back again. He did not know where the others had gone and they were not telling him. ‘They flew away like birds, you could not stop them,’ Huang sighed. ‘Sometimes, a few were caught and shot in front of everyone, but they just kept disappearing in droves.’
Party archives and documents from the period confirm Huang's story. In November and December 1933, out of at least 60,000 troops, there were 28,000 deserters in the Jiangxi Soviet – Ruijin alone had 4,300.8 The political commissar of the 5th Corps wrote in his diary that in September 1934 his 13th Division lost 1,800, or one-third of its men, due to desertion and illness.9 Even worse were the militias, who had been forced to help the soldiers dig trenches, move ammunition and carry the wounded to the rear. An urgent memo sent to all the county governments in August 1934 showed the scale of the problem:
Three-quarters of the militia mobilized for the recent battles in the whole Soviet region ran away within the first few days, leaving barely a quarter. It wasn't just ordinary members, but cadres and party officials … This has clearly weakened the Army's capacity and disrupted its operations. It is tantamount to helping the enemy. It cannot be tolerated.10
‘You know I never wanted to be a soldier,’ Huang said several times when we took the stools inside – it was almost twelve o'clock and he was going to take his long lunchtime siesta. ‘Y o u have to do night duty. It is much better to be a peasant, rising with the sun and resting with the sunset. And it is even better to sleep in the middle of the day. It's nobody's business what I do.’
On the way back to Ruijin, I thought a lot about Soldier Huang and what he had said. He spoke plainly, simply and honestly, with no self-glorification and no apology. He was too much the peasant through and through, open about his weaknesses, wavering and doubts, quite impervious to the propaganda that has permeated our lives. He came across as a real person, unlike all the characters in the Long March books, who are perfect, but less believable. After all, Huang was only 14 when he started out, just a boy. In that deadly first battle, in the test of fire and blood at such a young age, he did not cry out for his mother and father, he did not run away. He held on to his gun, and did so to the very end of the Long March. Whatever fears and doubts he might have had, they were only natural. He was human after all, and a fighter.
What I did not understand was, if Huang could see it was pointless for him and his comrades to be stuck in the trenches, how could the commanders of the Red Army have failed to recognize this? Why did they insist on trench warfare instead of Mao's proven guerrilla tactics? Did it not occur to them to adopt another strategy, or was Braun, the Red Army's Comintern adviser, simply too dogmatic, regardless of the situation on the ground?
I was glad I had someone to ask these questions. I met up with another Huang, a young academic who had been examining the Red Army in Jiangxi. I had read his published articles on the Fifth Campaign and was impressed. As a distinguished Chinese historian said, far too many of his colleagues had made the study of history more like propaganda than academic research. Their task for the past fifty years has been to praise the glorious achievements of the Party, eulogize Mao, and write the history of the Communist Party from his works. They have not always been like that – but sometimes they were not appreciated, and some were suppressed or tortured. After a while, they became so cautious they lost their independence of mind. Now things are changing slowly and a young generation of historians has broken away from the old restraints and is studying history as it should be – and Huang is one of them. He was in Ruijin for field research. I told him about Soldier Huang and he told me it was merely a coincidence they were both Huangs. ‘In Jiangxi, there are many Huang families. Perhaps he and I had one ancestor 500 years ago.’
We decided to have a quick bowl of noodles and then go to Shazhou Village over the lunch hour. It was just outside Ruijin and was the seat of the Party and Headquarters of the Red Army immediately before the Long March. Set in a lush landscape of green hills and ancient trees, it looked timeless except for a couple of souvenir shops selling Red Music, portraits of Mao, Mao stamps, three dozen books on Mao's talents in military affairs, poetry, leadership, interpersonal relations and calligraphy, and a DVD about his life; there were also beautiful girls in Red Army uniforms offering their services as guides.
In the centre of the village stood the imposing old clan shrine, and next to it was a long row of what had once been the lofty mansions of rich clan members. The placards outside announced their erstwhile occupants: the Politbureau, the National Executive Committee, various government departments, and the residences of all the senior leaders, including Mao's at the head of the village, sheltered by a huge camphor tree.
The village was crammed with people, like a country fair. Ruijin has always been regarded as the holy place of the Chinese Revolution. Lately, Party officials have got into the habit of combining tourism with visiting revolutionary sites. Ruijin was a popular choice: to see where the Long March started, to sit under the tree where the senior leaders had debated issues of life and death, to bathe in the eulogies of the masses for the Party, at