Shanghai 1937: Stalingrad on the Yangtze (17 page)

The Japanese had good reasons for seeking to capture Luodian, just as
the Chinese had excellent reasons to try to keep it. The German advisor Falkenhausen insisted that given the overall strategic situation in the Shanghai area as of late August, the town was the key to control of the region. Possession of Luodian would mean control of part of the road south to the town of Dachang and, a little further along the same road, Shanghai proper. Luodian also straddled the road to Jiading, a major town five miles to the west, which in turn was the gateway to the city of Nanxiang, close to the strategically vital railway line connecting Nanjing and Shanghai. “Luodian is the most crucial strategic point at the moment,” Falkenhausen wrote in a confidential report.
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As if to confirm Luodian’s importance, the Japanese reacted to the setback they suffered at the hands of the Chinese 11th Division by hastily organizing a massive counterattack. After securing their right flank against a possible Chinese assault from the north, they sent part of their main force towards the town. They staged a three-pronged attack, with several hundred soldiers in each column. The infantrymen were accompanied by tanks and mountain guns. The Chinese quickly realized that if they faced the assault head-on, they would not stand a chance against the better-equipped Japanese.

Instead, the Chinese defenders set up positions along the roads leading to the town, launching small-scale ambushes to harass the Japanese as they advanced. This slowed down the attack, but did not stop it, and the Japanese were able to enter Luodian for a second time that day. The Chinese reacted quickly, concentrating all available troops inside the town in an effort to intercept the Japanese. Bloody street fighting ensued and lasted well after sunset. It was the type of close combat in which the Chinese were at least the equals of the Japanese, if not their superiors. Eventually, the Japanese columns had to withdraw, leaving behind scores of dead and three burning tanks. Long after dark, shots could be heard in the flat countryside around Luodian as Chinese troops pursued the retreating enemy.
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August 23 was Hu Guobing’s birthday, but that was the last thing on his mind. It was still early morning when his regiment was ordered to pack up and get ready to move out. The Japanese enemy had landed at Wusong, less than five miles north of the regiment’s bivouac near the town of Jiang
wan just outside Shanghai, and must be beaten back. War had come quickly to Hu. It was less than a week since he had been in Nanjing, guarding the capital, but not really exposing himself to any danger other than the occasional Japanese air raid. Then suddenly, four days earlier, his regiment had been ordered to board the train for Shanghai.
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The first hours of the nearly 200-mile ride from Nanjing to Shanghai had gone fast enough. The troops had been protected by the darkness, and they had not had to worry about air attacks. Once day broke, the ride had become bumpy. Every time a Japanese plane was spotted over the horizon, the train had stopped. It had been 4:00 p.m. by the time they arrived 30 miles west of Shanghai. From there, the Japanese mastery of the air made it inadvisable to go on by train, and the regiment was ordered to march through the night to cover the last distance to Jiangwan. When they reached their destination on the morning of August 21, they dug in and began to wait.
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Hu Guobing was a member of the Chinese Army’s self-conscious elite. At 23, he was a junior officer in the Training Brigade, a unit set up two years earlier at the urging of Hans von Seeckt, the chief German advisor who had had a defining influence on the formation of the new Chinese Army earlier in the decade. Seeckt had wanted the brigade to function like the
Lehr
or “training” units of the German
Reichswehr.
It was meant to form a nucleus of experienced officers who were to act as instructors of other new units, while also allowing officers from elsewhere in the army to circulate through and acquaint themselves with the most recent developments in tactics and technology.
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The Training Brigade was the core of China’s modernized army, which was to eventually have reached 60 divisions. However, war had intervened, and the brigade had been thrown into battle where it was expected to perform as in peacetime: as an example to others.

Taking pride in doing everything by the rules, Hu Guobing’s regiment set off in perfect marching order through the ripening rice fields. A platoon headed by a young lieutenant formed the vanguard, which moved forward at a brisk pace in neat rows, as if on the parade ground. There was nothing discreet about this textbook formation, and Japanese aircraft circling overhead spotted it almost immediately. A shell whistled across the sky and exploded in the middle of the platoon in front, sending tons of moist soil
into the air. It left no recognizable piece of the young lieutenant. A squad commander was ripped in half and died instantly. Two soldiers lost legs. Wisely, the regimental commander ordered the platoons to disperse and make their way to the objective individually.

As they came within rifle range of the Japanese line near Wusong, the platoons dispersed further, splitting into squads. Soon the crack and rattle of small arms could be heard all along the regiment’s front. Battalion commander Qin Shiquan, a graduate of the Central Military Academy, led two companies towards the enemy positions, taking care not to be seen. When they were close enough, he ordered his bugler to sound the charge. He then raised his Mauser pistol, turned around to face his men and shouted, “Attack! Attack!” The sudden noise caused his position to be fatally exposed. Unseen Japanese observers hiding nearby sent his coordinates to warships offshore. Within minutes shells started raining down on the unit with uncanny precision.
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As the Japanese sent a storm of steel over the Chinese formation, all order disintegrated. Soon it was every unit for itself. Hu Guobing spent most of the day evading Japanese aircraft, which circled over the battlefield waiting for targets to reveal themselves. “It seemed as if the enemy could see everything. It was important not to act rashly. There was no other choice really but to take cover in a hole or behind a ridge,” he said.
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The shooting went on throughout the afternoon and did not die down until after the approach of darkness. Only then could the soldiers start breathing more freely, take a few bites of their field rations and relieve their parched throats with a sip from their water canteens. At the same time, they took advantage of the freedom of movement the night offered and rushed to improve their positions. They knew that once dawn broke, it would be too late, and a shallow trench or poor camouflage could mean death.
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Hu shared his trench with a young student. They had only known each other for a few hours but they had struck up a fledgling friendship. When darkness gave way to day on August 24, the tense atmosphere returned. Suddenly, Japanese shells started pelting their position. Pressing against the bottom of the trench, Hu was absorbed by one thought, and one thought only—to stay alive. Then it occurred to him that the student next to him had never been in a battle before and that this must be his first artillery barrage. He turned around, intending to say a few comforting words. What
he saw was the young man lying prone on the damp soil, eyes closed peacefully as if asleep. Blood was streaming from a gaping injury in his forehead, covering his face in red. He was dead.
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For Lieutenant Liu Yongcheng of the Training Brigade, the first two days of battle with the Japanese were not what he had expected. It was a deadly game of hide-and-seek with an invisible enemy who never showed his face, but manifested himself in a sudden hail of bullets or a series of shells which came out of nowhere. Late on August 23, he was leading his men through a small cluster of bombed-out peasant huts near Wusong, when he stumbled across a group of injured Chinese soldiers. Liu did not recognize their faces, but obviously they were the only ones left from their unit. They could not be evacuated, since the route back to the main Chinese line was across wide expanses of open countryside, with no features to offer any protection against the deadly fire of the naval artillery. Liu did not linger long near the injured soldiers but moved on, without a word. He had a job to do.
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Later that day Liu was crouching behind a ridge separating two rice fields. He had sent out scouts twice, and they had not returned. He decided to look for himself. He attempted to roll over the top of the ridge, but the moment his silhouette showed, two bullets hit his right leg. He slid back, bleeding profusely from the injuries. One of his squad commanders, a veteran of the 1932 battle, helped him dress the wounds and used the opportunity to broach the tactical situation. He pointed out that his own platoon and the two neighboring platoons had suffered severe losses. “Let’s not keep attacking,” the squad commander argued. “The enemy knows exactly where we are. But we shouldn’t retreat either. Retreating is even more dangerous. Let’s just stay here and hold the position behind the ridge.” Liu listened in silence. He knew the squad leader was an old hand, and he respected his views. They stayed behind the ridge for the rest of the day.
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The following morning, Japanese scouts spotted Liu’s position behind the ridge and started raining down rifle grenades. Liu was injured once more, this time in the back. One of his soldiers grabbed a first-aid kit intending to bandage his wound. When he turned Liu around, a bullet hit the wounded officer’s shoulder. Bleeding from multiple injuries, Liu was as helpless as the incapacitated soldiers he had seen near the peasant
huts the day before. However, when the company commander was informed of Liu’s plight, he sent a team of stretcher bearers to evacuate him back to the divisional field hospital. Ahead lay months of recovery, but he was among the lucky ones. Out of 44 officers and soldiers in the platoon that had gone into battle the day before, only 16 remained fit to fight.
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Putting Zhang Zhizhong and Feng Yuxiang, the Christian General, in charge of the defense of Shanghai had been Chiang Kai-shek’s own decision, in his capacity of chairman of the National Military Council. A week into the battle, he had even consolidated Feng Yuxiang’s authority by transforming the Shanghai area into the Third War Zone and putting him in command. Now he was begining to have regrets. In a telephone conversation with Feng Yuxiang shortly after the Japanese landings, Chiang Kai-shek reiterated the need to keep an eye on the younger frontline commanders. “Don’t hesitate to give them advice,” he said. Feng replied that he would not hold back. Then he went on to tell an anecdote about the Japanese General Nogi Maresuke, who during the Russo-Japanese War of 1904 and 1905 had allegedly left all major decisions to his chief of staff. “The frontline commanders have courage and a belligerent spirit. Their job is to take orders and fight. Mine is to sit behind, like Nogi, write a few poems, and just wait to die.” Chiang Kai-shek was insistent: “No matter what, don’t be shy. Share some advice with them.” “Of course,” Feng replied, “if I see something wrong, I’ll point it out. I won’t hesitate. Don’t worry.” This was hardly sufficient to reassure Chiang.
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Zhang Zhizhong, the scholarly commander of the left wing, was a source of even greater concern to Chiang. All his talk about fighting the Japanese seemed to have been mostly empty rhetoric. Zhang had not shown sufficient will to push through with the attacks against the small Japanese forces in the city at a time when they could have decided the battle. With Japanese reinforcements firmly in place on two locations in the greater Shanghai area, it was too late to seek a quick defeat of the enemy. With little progress on the ground, Zhang added insult to injury by seeming to spend a disproportionate amount of time making grandiose statements to the newspapers. Chiang Kai-shek was frustrated. It was a
frustration he shared with his German advisors, who agreed Zhang did not possess the necessary “toughness” in the face of Japanese resistance.

The dispatch of Deputy War Minister Chen Cheng to the front was a first indication, emerging even before the Japanese landings, that Chiang was preparing to replace Zhang Zhizhong. While Zhang had proved to be a weaker leader than expected, Chen Cheng was more a man to Chiang’s liking, who advised an all-out battle to challenge the Japanese at Shanghai and divert Japan’s attention away from the north.
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Further confirmation that Chen Cheng was gaining favor followed after the Japanese landings when he was put in charge of the 15th Army Group, which had been hastily formed from seven divisions scattered over a large area west of Chuanshakou.
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Given its position on the left wing of the Chinese Shanghai Army, the 15th Army Group arguably fell within Zhang Zhizhong’s area of responsibility. However, in a humiliating twist, Zhang was not even informed about Chen Cheng’s appointment, and only learned about it indirectly from other field commanders.

Fearing that he was being sidelined, Zhang Zhizhong rushed to the Third War Zone headquarters in Suzhou to get a sense of the political situation by talking to the commanders there. While in Suzhou, he also managed to talk on the phone with Chiang Kai-shek in Nanjing and immediately understood how much his standing had declined. Chiang started off by criticizing him for turning up so far behind the frontline. “What are you doing in Suzhou? What are you doing in Suzhou?” Chiang repeated, showing no inclination for dialogue. “Mr Chairman,” Zhang replied, “I’m merely back in Suzhou to discuss important strategic issues. Otherwise, I’m constantly at the frontline.” Feeling unfairly targeted, Zhang added: “What’s the matter with you?” Chiang Kai-shek was incensed at the disrespectful retort. “What’s the matter with me?” he yelled. “You ask me what’s the matter with me?” His voice transformed to a hoarse shriek, Chiang Kai-shek hung up.
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At this point, Zhang Zhizhong must have been in little doubt that his days as the chief field commander were numbered.