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.