On 12th March 1925, Sun
Yat-sen, the leader of the Kuomintang
died. He was replaced by Chaing
Kai-Shek who
now carried out a purge that eliminated the communists from the organization.
Those communists who survived managed to established the Jiangxi Soviet.
The nationalists now imposed
a blockade and Mao
Zedong decided
to evacuate the area and establish a new stronghold in the north-west
of China. In October 1934 Mao, Zhou
Enlai,
Lin
Biao, Zhu
De, and some
100,000 men and their dependents headed west through mountainous areas.
The marchers experienced
terrible hardships. The most notable passages included the crossing
of the suspension bridge over a deep gorge at Luting (May, 1935),
travelling over the Tahsueh Shan mountains (August, 1935) and the
swampland of Sikang (September, 1935).
The marchers covered about
fifty miles a day and reached Shensi on 20th October 1935. Only around
30,000 survived the 8,000-mile march.
(1)
Zhou
Enlai, Mao Zedong (1978)
During the Great Revolution,
Chairman Mao was already aware that the peasants were the largest
ally and that the people's revolution could not triumph without them.
And sure enough, the revolution suffered defeat because his views
weren't listened to. Later, when we got to the countryside. Chairman
Mao saw that in order to carry out the revolution it is necessary
not only to rely on the peasants, but also to win over the middle
and petty bourgeoisie. As Chiang Kai-shek's counter-revolutionary
treachery became further exposed, only the comprador-bureaucrat and
feudal landlord classes supported him. But a group of people inside
the Communist Party made "Left" deviationist mistakes and
were very narrow in their outlook, holding that the middle and petty
bourgeoisie were unreliable. They didn't listen to Chairman Mao, and
the result was that the revolution suffered another setback and we
had to march 25,000 li.
(2)
Hans Suyin wrote about the Long March in his book The Morning Deluge
(1972)
The conditions under which
the Long March began could not have been worse, with totally inadequate
food supplies, much cumbersome and useless baggage, no battle plans
in relation to enemy troop movements. Li Teh was the man chiefly responsible
for the conduct of this evacuation. Backed by Chin Pang-hsien, he
overrode the opinions of other members of the Revolutionary Military
Council, as he had done persistently during the fifth counter campaign.
During the last four months,
up till the final day of departure, peasants of the base had laboured
at earth fortifications and trenches; the new recruits in the Army
had very poor training, severe shortages had affected their health.
"Where were we going? Some were told we were going to beat the
landlords and make revolution . . . We were told many different things.
We did not know where we were going."
It appears that all that
Li Teh knew of military science was the straight, straight line. He
drew a straight line and that was the line of march. But one important
detail had been forgotten. Maps. There were no maps except the maps
Mao had collected. These maps did not indicate the straight, straight
roads which Li Teh wanted for marching on. The Red Army men, exhausted
after months of combat, of malnutrition, lack of salt, defeats, had
had no time to rest. Yet these incredible peasants and workers hurled
themselves at the lines of blockhouses, machine gun nests, trenches,
fortifications, barbed wire entanglements, which surrounded the Juichin
base, and broke them. Nine battles were fought against 100 regiments
of the Kuomintang; 25,000 Red Army men died in the breakthrough.
During the first ten days
the orders were to walk by night and rest by day; but there was no
rest, as the open columns were pitilessly strafed by German-manned
airplanes. The orders were changed to four hours of marching and four
hours rest, day and night. But again there was no rest, for they were
attacked, had no time to eat, to find shelter, water, before they
were on the march again.
We fought every day, we
were outnumbered. We could only pluck up courage, and sing: "The
Red Army fears not
death/Who fears death is not a Red Army man." From the rear,
from both sides as well as from the air, in front of them, the enemy
attacked. "We were so tired, we strapped ourselves to trees,
to our guns, we strung ourselves to each other. We slept standing
up, we slept walking. We had only one thing in mind, sleep. But there
was no sleep. The strong pulled the weak. We did not want to straggle,
to be left behind. Long rows of us roped ourselves together so as
to keep on the march. We called it sleep flying.
Always going straight
as a ruler, the Red Army arrived on the east bank of the Hsiang river.
It had to be crossed, for now the "plan" was to march straight
across Hunan and then northwest, to join the base of the Second Front
Army, although by then the bulk of the Second Front Army was elsewhere.
A vast Kuomintang force barred the way, yet the river had to be forded.
The Red Army waded through, the tall carrying the short; the children
of 12 and 13 who in their hundreds had come to the Army and served
as orderlies, cookboys, carriers and trumpeters hitched themselves
onto the veterans' shoulders.
The Red Army fought (how
they fought!) with marvellous courage, stood in two columns to allow
their noncombatants to
use the lane between them to cross the river. There were not enough
stretcher-bearers, many wounded lay in heaps dying. They stuffed cloth
in their own mouths to keep from screaming. Many cadres also died,
fighting side by side with the soldiers. Mao Zedong went to the wounded,
but could not do very much except cover one with his overcoat.
The battle of the Hsiang
river lasted a week, with horrifying losses. The dead and the dying
littered the bank. This insane
attempt cost another 30,000 men. "We had to leave some of the
wounded behind, there was no way to carry them. By now we had no footwear,
some of us did not eat for four days; yet we fought." "I
remember how it rained and it rained, we wallowed in mud, we sank
in it; but we went through." According to Liu Po-cheng, by
now half of the troops
had been either killed or wounded grievously. But the "Head on,
straight on" Li Teh would not change the orders.
(3)
Tan Ching-lin's account of the Long March appeared in Stories of
the Long March (1958)
From Kangmaoszu, the marshes
stretched like a great sea, vague, gloomy and illimitable. In sunless
days, there was no way to tell the direction. Treacherous bogs were
everywhere which sucked a man down once he stepped off the firmer
parts, and more quickly if he tried to extricate himself. We could
advance only with minute care, stepping on grass-clumps. Even so,
one could not help feeling nervous, for the grass mounds sank with
the pressure and black water would rise and submerge the foot. Soon
after one passed, the grass mound would rise to its original position,
leaving not a trace of the footprint. It was really like traversing
a treacherous quicksand. Fortunately, the advance unit had left a
course hair rope which led meanderingly to the depth of the morass.
We proceeded carefully along this rope, fearing that we might break
it, for we knew clearly this was no ordinary rope, but a "life-line"
that was set up by fraternal units at the cost of the lives of many
good comrades.
We tried out almost all
kinds of wild plants along our way. Later we discovered a sort of
prickly, stumpy tree denuded of
leaves but with tiny red berries the size of a pea, and with a sour-sweet
taste like cherries. This was accounted the best of our discoveries.
Whenever this tree appeared in the distance, we would run straight
toward it with a sudden flush of vigour. And some comrades, forgetting
they were in a swamp, would run headlong into the mire and disappear.
Those who reached the tree would begin eating, and when they had their
fill, would pluck the rest for the wounded and sick comrades.
On the sixth day, someone
dug out a kind of aqueous plant the size of a green turnip which tasted
sweet and crisp. Everybody at once searched for it. It proved poisonous.
Those who ate it vomited after half an hour; several died on the spot.
Death, however, could not be allowed to delay our progress. Unfastening
the quilts of the martyrs and covering their bodies we paid them the
deep tribute all Red Army heroes warrant, and continued to push forward.
(4)
Mon Hsu was interviewed about the Long March by Agnes
Smedley for her book The Great
Road (1956)
Today I discovered a comrade
struggling in the muddy water. His body was crunched together and
he was covered with muck. He gripped his rifle fiercely, which looked
like a muddy stick. Thinking he had merely fallen down and was trying
to get up, I tried to help him stand. After I pulled him up he took
two steps, but the entire weight of his body was on me, and he was
so heavy that I could neither hold him up nor take a step. Urging
him to try and walk alone, I released him. He fell on the path and
tried to rise. I tried again to lift him but he was so heavy and I
so weak that it was impossible. Then I saw that he was dying. I still
had some parched wheat with me and I gave him some but he could not
chew, and it was clear that no food could save him. I carefully put
the parched wheat back in my pocket, and when he died I arose and
passed on and left him lying there. Later, when we reached a resting
place I took the wheat from my pocket but I could not chew it. I kept
thinking of our dying comrades. I had no choice but to leave him where
he fell, and had I not done this I would have fallen behind and lost
contact with our army and died. Yet I could not eat that parched wheat.
(5)
Chang Kuo-hua's
account of the Long March appeared in Stories of the Long March
(1958)
The higher we went, the
narrower the path became. The slope was getting steeper, the air thinner.
It was very dangerous to ride, so I dismounted and, grasping the tail
of the mule, continued to struggle upwards. On this path rising through
the sombre, virgin forest, were several other comrades who like me,
were ill. They climbed, gritting their teeth, following closely the
footsteps of the comrade in front.
At eleven a.m. we had,
after much difficulty, reached to within six li of the summit when
the bugle sounded for a rest. All sat down on the side of the path.
Some ran down to the gully to drink water. Others took out their rations
and began to eat. We would give the final battle to the snow mountain
after we had eaten.
Though this section was
not long, every step demanded the strength of my whole body. I purged
less frequently, but I felt
awfully weak, as if I had not eaten for a long, long time. The air
suddenly became thinner when we were some two hundred metres from
the summit. Breathing became more difficult. With head spinning and
eyes blurred, I could hardly stand, let alone go forward. 'Now I am
done for', I said to myself. But immediately thought: 'Am I going
to be defeated when the summit is in sight? I must not fall, for that
would be the end of everything.'
I controlled myself with
the utmost effort. I was struggling desperately when, luckily, comrades
from the signal squad came up and gave me a hand. Just at this moment
there was a thud from behind, followed by an outcry. I looked back.
A carrier had fallen to the track, pole and all. Steadying my gaze,
I saw that it was the young comrade Li Chiu-sheng who, so short a
time before, had challenged me to a competition. I was racked with
grief. We had lost another close comrade-in-arms.
The Supply Section head,
hearing what happened, quickly hurried back and, with tear-filled
eyes, buried Li Chiu-sheng's
body.
Without warning there
came a blast of wind. The sun was quickly shrouded by a heavy black
cloud, and soon the whole sky darkened. Rain, intermixed with hail,
came pattering down. The storm gathered force, and hailstones, the
size of potatoes, beat down on us. The men covered their heads with
basins, or shrouded them in quilts. I struggled with all my might
to fold up two sheepskins. One I gave to my chief; the other I wrapped
over my head.
Eventually the storm passed.
Strewn on the track were ice and snow which were soon trodden into
a lane as deep as a man's height as the troops proceeded. On both
sides of this lane lay numerous dear comrades who, for the future
of the people of the motherland, had struggled until they breathed
their last. They sleep everlasting on this snow mountain. 'The nation's
heroes are immortal.'
My chief, pole on his
shoulder, leading me by the hand, continued to advance towards the
last stretch.
'It is no easy task to
carry on the revolution', he kept saying to me. 'And aren't those
comrades who now lie on the roadside heroes who sacrificed themselves
for it?'
As he talked, I saw his
eyes redden. A few hot tears fell on my hand.
'We are still alive,'
he went on, 'we mustn't slacken our effort. We must take up the cause
of the martyrs and continue to
struggle.'
Hearing his words I was
too moved for speech. Though I had not eaten for days and was racked
by illness, I was a Communist. I was still quite young. But so long
as I had one breath left in me, I
would exert my last ounce of strength to scale the mountain. Gritting
my teeth, I climbed and climbed and at last was at the summit.
(6)
Chen Changfeng was Mao Zedong's orderly. He wrote an account of Mao
Zedong and the Long March in 1973.
In June 1955, after crossing
the Dadu River, we came to the foot of Jiajin Mountain, a towering,
snowcovered peak. The June sun had not yet set but its heat had lost
its power in the face of this great icy mass.
We paused for a day at
its foot. Chairman Mao had advised us to collect ginger and chilli
to fortify ourselves against the bitter cold as we climbed the pass
over the mountain. We started the climb in the early morning of the
next day.
The peak of Jiajin Mountain
pierced the sky like a sword point glittering in the sunlight. Its
whole mass sparkled as if decorated with a myriad glittering mirrors.
Its brightness dazzled your eyes. Every now and again clouds of snow
swirled around the peak like a vast umbrella. It was an unearthly,
fairyland sight.
At the start the snow
was not so deep and we could walk on it fairly easily. But after twenty
minutes or so the drifts became deeper and deeper. A single careless
step could throw you into a crevasse and then it might take hours
to extricate you. If you walked where the mantle of snow was lighter,
it was slippery; for every step you took, you slid back three! Chairman
Mao was walking ahead of us, his shoulders hunched, climbing with
difficulty. Sometimes he would slip back several steps. Then we gave
him a hand; but we too had difficulty in keeping our foothold and
then it was he who caught our arms in a firm grip and pulled us up.
He wore no padded clothes. Soon his thin grey trousers were wet through
and his black cotton shoes were shiny with frost.
The climb was taking it
out of us. I clambered up to him and said: "Chairman! It's too
hard for you, better let us support you!" I stood firm beside
him. But he only answered shortly: "No, you're just as tired
as I am!" and went on.
Half way up the mountain
a sudden, sharp wind blew up. Thick, dark clouds drifted along the
top of the range. The gusts blew up the snow which swirled around
us viciously.
I hurried a few steps
forward and pulled at his jacket. "Snow's coming. Chairman!"
I yelled.
He looked ahead against
the wind. "Yes, it'll be on us almost at once. Let's get ready!"
No sooner had he spoken than hailstones, as big as small eggs, whistled
and splashed down on us. Umbrellas were useless against this gusty
sea of snow and ice. We held an oilskin sheet up and huddled together
under it with Chairman Mao in the centre. The storm raged around us
as if the very sky were falling. All we could hear were the confused
shouts of people, neighing of horses and deafening thunder claps.
Then came a hoarse voice from above us.
"Comrades! Hold on!
Don't give up! Persistence means victory!" I lifted my head and
looked up. Red flags were flying from the top of the pass. I looked
enquiringly at Chairman-Mao.
"Who's that shouting
there?"
"Comrades from the
propaganda team," the Chairman replied. "We must learn from
them. They've got a stubborn spirit!"
The snowstorm dropped
as suddenly as it had started, and the warm, red sun came out again.
Chairman Mao left the oilskin shelter and stood up on the snowy mountainside.
The last snowflakes still whirled around him.
"Well, how did we
come out of that battle?" he asked. "Anyone wounded?"
No one reported any hurts.
As we went up higher,
the going grew more difficult. When we were still at the foot of the
mountain, the local people had told us: "When you get to the
top of the mountain, don't talk nor laugh, otherwise the god of the
mountain will choke you to death." We weren't superstitious,
but there was some harsh truth in what they said. Now I could hardly
breathe. It seemed as if my chest was being pressed between two millstones.
My heartbeats were fast and I had difficulty in talking, let alone
laughing. I felt as if my heart would pop out of my mouth if I opened
it. Then I looked at Chairman Mao again. He was walking ahead, stepping
firmly against the wind and snow. At the top of the mountain the propaganda
team shouted again:
"Comrades, step up!
Look forward! Keep going!"
Finally we gained the
summit of the mountain pass. White snow blanketed everything. People
sat in groups of three or five. Some were so exhausted that they lay
down.
(7)
Kang Cheng-teh's
account of the Long March appeared in Stories of the Long March
(1958)
Popa was the largest mountain
village around there, with 900 Tibetan families living in stone houses
that looked like square fortifications. The Tibetans had all fled
before the troops arrived. We could see red cloth strips hanging at
all the doors which were sealed with charms or even locked. The yards
were bare of everything, excepting a bit of firewood. To show our
respect for minority people, the leadership decided that we should
not enter the houses but bivouac outside the village.
The weather in early spring
was still cold enough to make one shiver. More so, sleeping in the
open at night, for a fire warmed the front but left the back icy cold.
All one could do against the damp ground was to spread some straw
over it.
Food posed a serious problem,
for there was not enough even of grass roots and tree bark to suffice
for all. The number of the wounded and the sick was mounting every
day.
We decided to rest, recuperate
and reorganise here.
It was said that a melon
couldn't be detached from its stem, nor a child from its mother. So
how could the Red Army exist apart from the people? But no troops
had ever come here before, and the Tibetans were far from knowing
that we were troops of the people. When they heard that troops were
coming, their headman led them off to the mountains-, driving away
sheep and cattle. The llamas in the temple also left.
We must get our strength,
the people, to come back. The leadership issued orders that mass discipline
should be strictly observed; that the customs and habits of the national
minority should be respected; that the red cloth strips and charms
on the doors should be left untouched; that the streets should be
swept every day; and that we, the propaganda section, should all go
out with the interpreters (one or two Hans who knew Tibetan were attached
to every company) and try all we could to find the people and persuade
them to return.
We divided our section
into several groups. Some inscribed on walls big characters in Tibetan
in conspicuous places in the village, slogans of the "three disciplines
and eight points for attention" of the Red Army, and the Party's
policy towards national minorities. Some went to the mountains to
look for the people. We spent three or four days each trip, passing
the nights in the wild mountains, in the forests or on the unbounded
grassland. Often we would hear human voices and spot fresh dung
of sheep or cattle without seeing a human shadow.
We had been on the job
a dozen days when luck directed us to a stone cave in which the Tibetan
headman was hidden. After much explaining and propagandising we learned
that he longed for a horse. That would have been no difficulty at
all in the past; but now all horses had been killed for food except
the one ridden by the divisional commander. When on our return we
mentioned this, he at once ordered his orderly to send the horse over.
The headman was extremely
happy with the gift; yet he did not feel completely assured. He sent
some men back with us to have a look at things. When these people
saw the slogans at the village entrance, and discovered that the locks,
the red cloth strips and the charms over the doors were untouched,
that not one of the articles hidden within the seams of the walls
was missing, that the streets were swept clean, and that we bivouacked
outside the village in the cold, with stewed wild vegetables for food,
they were profoundly moved and, palm to palm, saluted to us. Some
did not wait but ran straight back to the mountain and related to
the headman and their countrymen what they had seen in their village.
One by one the Tibetans
returned from the mountains and the grassland, driving some 37,000
sheep and cattle laden with bags of barley and chanpa (a food made
of barley flour and butter). With the headman in the lead, they opened
the doors of their houses and, despite our protestations, took us
into their homes with great fuss and ceremony. Some unearthed bacon
which had been buried underground and presented it to us. They also
made a gift of 300
sheep and cattle to us.
(8)
Yang Teh-chi's
account of the Long March appeared in Stories of the Long March
(1958)
Sixteen names were called.
Looking at these husky fellows, I thought
the battalion commander had chosen well.
Suddenly a fighter broke
from the ranks. 'I'll go too! I must go!' he cried, running towards
the battalion commander. It was the messenger of the 2nd Company.
The battalion commander
looked at him. 'Go!' he said, after a while. He was moved by the scene
and approved this exception. The messenger brushed away his tears
and ran quickly to join the crossing party.
The eighteen heroes (the
battalion commander himself included) were equipped each with a broad
sword, a tommy-gun, a pistol, half a dozen grenades and some working
tools. They were organised into two parties. The one led by Hsiung
Shang-lin, commander of the 2nd Company, was to cross first.
The waters of the Tatu
rushed and roared. I scanned the enemy on the opposite shore through
my field-glasses. They seemed very quiet.
The solemn moment had
come. Hsiung Shang-lin and his men - eight in all - jumped on to the
boat.
'Comrades! The lives of
the one hundred thousand Red Army men depend on you. Cross resolutely
and wipe out the enemy!'
Amid cheering the boat
left the south bank.
The enemy, obviously getting
impatient, fired at the boat.
'Give it to them!'
Our artillery opened up.
Chao Chang-cheng, our magic gunner, swung his gun into position. 'Bang!
Bang!' The enemy's
fortifications were sent flying into the sky. Our machine-guns and
rifles also spoke. The sharp-shooters, more tense than their fellow
fighters crossing, fired away feverishly. Shells showered on the enemy
fortifications; machine-gun fire swept the opposite shore. The boatmen
dug their blades into the water with zest.
The boat progressed, tossing
on the surging waters. Bullets landed around it, sending up spray.
The eyes of everybody ashore were glued on the courageous team.
Suddenly, a shell dropped
beside the boat, creating a wave which
shook the craft violently.
'Ah, it's the end!' My
heart was in my mouth. The boat rose and
fell with the wave, then resumed its normal course.
On it went, nearer and
nearer the opposite shore. Now it was only
five or six metres from it. The soldiers stood at the bow, ready
to jump.
Suddenly a grenade and
a hand mine were rolled from the top of the hill, exploding with a
loud report halfway down, sending up a pall of white smoke. It seemed
the enemy was really going to make a charge. I looked through my field-glasses
and, just as I had expected, the enemy soldiers were sallying out
from the hamlet. There were at least 200 of them against our few.
Our crossing party would be fighting against overwhelming odds with
the river at their back. My heart tightened.
'Fire!' I ordered the
gunners.
Followed two deafening
reports. The mortar shells directed by Chao Chang-cheng exploded right
among the enemy. The heavy machine-guns rat-rattled.
'Come on! Give it to them
hard!'
Shouts arose from the
slope. The enemy scattered in a fluster, running for their lives.
'Fire, fire!' I ordered.
We pumped another shower
of metal at them. Our heroes who had landed dashed forward, firing
with their light and heavy weapons. The enemy retreated. Our men occupied
the defence works at the ferry. But the enemy was still around.
The boat came back quickly.
The eight other men, led by the battalion commander, went on board.
'Advance with the greatest
possible speed, support the comrades who have landed!' I heard the
battalion commander say to his men.
The boat pushed away and
made quickly for the opposite shore. The enemy on the hill, trying
to organise its entire fire to
destroy our second landing party, fired desperately towards the middle
of the river.
The little boat dashed
through wave after wave and dodged shower after shower of bullets.
A whole hour passed before
it reached the shore. I took a deep breath of relief.
There ensued a duel of
artillery fire between us and the enemy on the hill. The enemy threw
a shower of hand mines and began to charge at the call of the bugle.
The two groups of landing
heroes joined forces - eighteen of them - rushing towards the enemy,
hurling their grenades, firing their tommy-guns and brandishing their
swords. Utterly routed, the enemy ran desperately towards the rear
of the hill. The north bank came under the complete control of our
landing party.
After a while the boat
returned to the south bank. This time I brought with me a number of
heavy machine-gunners to consolidate the defence of the position.
It was getting dark. More
and more Red Army men crossed safely. Pursuing the enemy, we captured
two more boats on the lower reaches which sped up our crossing. By
the forenoon of the next day, the whole regiment was on the opposite
bank.
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