THE STORMING OF TAKU-SHAN
UPON the seacoast east of the great fortress there is a rugged mountain towering high with almost perpendicular sides, its beetling rocks and crags spotted here and there with dwarf trees. The whole looks, from a distance, like an old tiger squatting on a hill. This is Taku-shan, or the Great Orphan. Hsiaoku-shan, or the Little Orphan, lies to the south, and on the opposite side, at the foot of Laolütszu. Taku-shan is a solitary peak 188 metres in height; its southwestern side looks down into the fortress of Port Arthur, and its northwestern side overlooked the inside of the line of investment formed by our left and central columns. Our works of investment, the movements of every division, and the position of our artillery were plainly visible from there. The side facing our army was particularly steep and precipitous, almost impossible to climb. It was as bad as Kenzan and Taipo-shan. While these two hills allowed the enemy to look into our position, they could not help becoming the mark and target for our fire. The commanding general of our division made the following remark about them:—
“The Great and Little Orphans may be likened to the meat between the ribs of a chicken, which is hard to get and yet we are reluctant to throw it away.[50] As long as these hills are left in the enemy’s hands, we are sure to be overlooked and shot from them, even though after we have taken them ourselves we cannot help becoming a target for the enemy.”
Such a naturally protected position is extremely hard to take, and harder to keep, even when we have succeeded in taking it after untold struggles, because it will be fired at by all the neighboring forts as a convenient object. Therefore, in spite of the unanimous conclusion of the staff that the place must be taken from geographic and strategic necessity, we waited for the proper opportunity without firing a shot, though the enemy fired at us incessantly; and we hurried on our preparations for the close investment.
The 7th of August was finally fixed for our march and attack. Our field-artillery and siege-artillery, with shrapnels and mortars, had already taken their position in great secrecy. At 4 P. M. all the guns simultaneously opened fire, and directed it to the sky-line of both Orphans.
The boom and roar rent the air and white smoke shut out the sky, and not only the forts on both Orphans, but also those on Panlung, Kikuan-shan, and Laolütszu in the rear responded to our fire at once. As far as the eye could reach the whole country was covered with smoke, and the tremendous noise of a hundred thunders at the same time went ceaselessly through the gloomy sky, which threatened rain at any moment. Whenever one of our shells struck a rock on Taku-shan, light yellowish-white sparks and fragments of rock flew far and wide—truly it was one of the sublimest sights of war. The enemy’s artillery was superior in strength and they had the great advantage of overlooking us, hence our artillery labored under great difficulty and disadvantage and suffered damage of great magnitude. But the enemy’s artillery seemed ignorant of the fact that our shrapnel guns and mortars were posted in the valley; they merely concentrated their fire on the artillery belonging to the columns, and on our infantry. Thus our big guns remained entirely free from damage, and toward sunset their effect on the enemy became more apparent, so that the Russian guns on Taku-shan seemed more or less silenced. At 4 P. M. our regiment left its place of bivouac and began to march, with a view to crossing the river Taiko and attacking the enemy as soon as our guns should open a proper opportunity for such an assault.
Before proceeding to describe this fierce struggle, let me tell you what I had thought and done just before it. This experience was not mine only, but rather common to all fighters before a decisive battle. You will understand by this story one of the weaknesses of soldiers. During the three months since I had first stepped on the soil of Liaotung, I, humble and insignificant as I was, had borne the grave responsibility of carrying the regimental colors representing the person of His Majesty himself, and had already gone through three battles—on Kenzan, Taipo-shan, and Kanta-shan. Fortunately or unfortunately, I had not had a scratch as yet, while a large number of brave men had fallen under the standard, and the standard itself had been torn by the enemy’s shell. When the regimental flag was damaged, a soldier quite close by me was killed and yet I remained unhurt. However, the rumors of my death had repeatedly reached home by this time, and a false story of my being wounded had appeared in the newspapers. I had heard of all this while at the front. One of these rumors said that at the time of our landing the storm was so violent that my sampan was upset and I was swallowed by big waves, and that, though I swam for several cho[51] with the regimental flag in my mouth, I was at last buried in the sea by the angry billows. Another rumor reported that I had encountered the enemy soon after landing and was killed, together with the captain of our First Company. All these mistaken reports had already made me a hero, and later I was frequently reported to have been wounded, with wonderful details accompanying each story. But when I examined myself I felt that I had no merit, neither the slightest wound upon my body. I could not help being ashamed of myself, and thought I was unworthy the great expectations of my friends. This idea made me miserable. So therefore I made up my mind to fight desperately and sacrifice my life at this battle of Taku-shan. A few days before the attack began, I told my servant that I was fully determined to die this time; that I did not know how to thank him for all his great goodness to me, and asked him to consider the assurance of my death as my only memento of my gratitude to him—I also asked him to fight valiantly. My servant, his eyes dim with tears, said that if his lieutenant died he would die with him. I told him that I would prepare a box for my ashes, but that, if I should be so beautifully killed as to leave no bones, he was to send home some of my hair. Then I went on to make a box of fragments of planks that had been used for packing big shells; they were fastened together with bamboo nails made by my servant. A clumsy box of about three inches square was thus prepared, in which I placed a lock of my hair, as well as sheets of paper for wrapping up my ashes; on the lid of the box I wrote my name and my posthumous Buddhistic name as well. My coffin being thus ready, the only thing remaining for me to do was to exert myself to the very last, to repay the favor of the Emperor and of the country with my own life. But, after all, this box has not borne the distinction of carrying my remains. Alas! it is now a mere laughing-stock for myself and my friends.
That evening I wrote a letter to my elder brother in Tokyo and reported to him the recent events in the struggle, and told him that our attack was to begin on the morrow; that I was ready and determined to die; that though my body be lost at Port Arthur, my spirit would not forget loyalty to the Emperor for seven lives. Of course this was meant as my eternal farewell. On the same day I received a letter from that brother, in which I found the following passages of admonition:—
“Think not of honor or of merit—only be faithful to thy duty.”
“When Nelson died a glorious death in the sea-fight of Trafalgar, he said, ‘Thank God, I have done my duty.’”
On the eve of this great battle I received these words of encouragement and instruction, which made my heart still braver and my determination still firmer.
At 5 P. M. on the 7th of August, a great downpour of rain mingled with the thunder of cannon, and the afternoon sky became utterly dark, dismal, and dreary. We were halted on an eminence over the river Taiko, waiting anxiously for the command “Forward!” The rain became heavier and the sky darker. The Russian search-light, falling on one side of the hills and valleys, occasionally threw a whitish-blue light over the scene and impeded the march of our infantry. The plunging fire of the enemy became more and more violent as time went on. It made a strange noise, mingled with the tremendous downpour of rain. Lieutenant Hayashi and myself under one overcoat would exchange words now and then.
“We may separate at any moment,” was Hayashi’s abrupt remark, as if he were thinking of his death.
“I also am determined to die to-night,” was my response. Whereupon Hayashi said:—
“What a long time we have been together!”
We had no more chance to continue this conversation, but had to separate. We had been comrades through the campaign, and while at home had been messmates for a long time. It was this Lieutenant Hayashi who, at the last rush upon Taipo-shan, achieved the first entry within the enemy’s ramparts brandishing his sword. This hurried farewell was indeed our last—our hand-shaking an eternal good-by.
As was said before, our artillery fire began to take effect toward evening. Whereupon our detachment began to advance as had been previously planned. The rain fell more and more heavily, and the narrow paths became mud-holes. We marched with great difficulty knee-deep in water and mud. The enemy’s battery on Taku-shan was not silenced or weakened as we had supposed. As soon as they discovered us marching through the rain and smoke, they resumed their firing with fresh vigor. When we reached the river, the muddy water was overrunning its banks, and we did not know how deep it was. The enemy, taking advantage of the heavy rain, had dammed the stream below, and was trying to impede our march by this inundation. However brave we might be, we could not help hesitating before this unexpected ally of the Russians. Should we brave the water, we might merely drown, instead of dying by the enemy’s projectiles. But behold! a forlorn hope of our engineers jumped into the dark flood and broke the dam; very soon the water subsided and the infantry could cross the river. Our whole force jumped into the water and waded. Instead of being drowned, many were killed in the stream by the enemy’s fire; their dead bodies were strewn so thick that they formed almost a bridge across the river.
At last we reached the foot of Taku-shan, but we had then to break the wire-entanglements and run the risk of stepping on mines. One danger over, others were awaiting us! This was not, however, the time or place to hesitate; we began to clamber over rocks and scale precipices. Pitch darkness and violent rain increased our difficulties. The pouring rain and the crossing of the river had wet us through and through, yet we could not exercise our muscles freely to promote the circulation of blood. Moreover, as we came nearer and nearer the Russian trenches, they poured shrapnel bullets upon our heads, or hurled stones and beams upon us, so that the difficulty of pushing forward was very great. A neighboring detachment had already approached the skirmish-trenches which formed a horseshoe half-way up on the side of the mountain. Meanwhile our detachment was busy making firm footholds in the rocks on the mountain-side, preparing for an early opportunity of trying a night assault. But the enemy with search-light and star-shells worked so hard to impede progress, that the night surprise was given up as an impossibility. Accordingly we planned an attack at early dawn instead; we had now to wait, facing each other and the enemy, exposed to the rain, which continued to fall without intermission.
When the eastern sky began to lighten, the rain was still falling. The bodies of our comrades scattered along the river Taiko could not be picked up, nor could an orderly reach the other side of the stream, because we were right under the enemy’s eyes. In spite of this, orderlies were dispatched, but were shot down without a single exception. Such a horrible scene! Such a disappointing result! No one had any plan to propose, and we did not know when and how the object of storming the enemy could be accomplished. Sergeant-Major Iino, who was shot through the abdomen and lying flat in agony at the foot of Taku-shan, was at this moment begging every orderly that passed by to kill him and relieve his suffering. How could we defeat the enemy and care for the dead and wounded? Our minds ran right and left, but still no desirable opportunity offered itself. On the top of all this, eleven ships of the Russian fleet, including the Novic, made their appearance near Yenchang and began bombarding our infantry marching toward the Taku and Hsiaoku-shan from the rear. There was nothing to shield us; we became a certain target for the enemy’s fire, and were killed and wounded at their will. We were thus reduced to a state of uttermost desperation, as if a wolf had attacked us at the back gate while we were defending the front gate against a tiger. But, after all, how did we capture this Taiku-shan?
Ch. XXII.