Ch. VII.
NANSHAN AFTER THE BATTLE
NANSHAN guards Chin-chou at the entrance to the Liaotung Peninsula. Though its hills are not steep or rugged, they go far back in great waves. The place is convenient for defensive purposes, but it is inferior in this respect to Nankwanling, farther back. In the China-Japan War, the Chinese resisted us for a while at this Nankwanling. The reason why the Russians preferred to fortify Nanshan rather than Nankwanling was because the former was near Dalny, their only non-freezing port. They had chosen a spot on the opposite shore from Lin Shin Ton, the railway terminus at the head of Talie Bay, and had built there the large city of Dalny, making it their only commercial port in Liaotung and the starting-point of the Eastern China Railway. In order to protect this port, they had chosen Nanshan at its back and built there a fortification of a semi-permanent character. For ten years they had been spending hundreds of millions in building this city and fortifying Port Arthur, and at the same time in strengthening this important outpost of Nanshan. We were told by a captured Russian staff-officer that the Russians had believed that Nanshan could stand the fiercest attacks of the Japanese for more than half a year. However, when our second army began to attack the place, they set at naught every difficulty, did not grudge any amount of sacrifice, and precipitated themselves upon the enemy so violently that Chin-chou, Nanshan, and Dalny were all occupied in one single night and day (May 26). You can well imagine how desperate was this struggle. Even in the China-Japan War, the taking of Nankwanling and the occupation of Port Arthur were not quite as easy as to twist a baby’s arm. But one Japanese officer, who fought on both occasions, said to us, when he examined the elaborate defenses of Nanshan, that the battle of ten years before had only been a sham fight in comparison. We had to sacrifice over four thousand men killed and wounded in order to take this stronghold. The scene after the battle presented a terrible sight. True it is that this battle was very mild compared with the general assault on Port Arthur, but at Nanshan I saw for the first time in my life the shocking scenes after a furious fight.
We managed somehow to pass the night of the 26th at Chungchia-tun, and on the next morning we received instructions to go out and lodge at Yenchia-tun, a village at the foot of Nanshan. The fifth and sixth companies of our regiment were ordered to guard Nanshan.
As soon as we reached the top of the steep hill that I have already mentioned, an extensive rolling country was before our eyes. At its right was Chin-chou, while on the left the steep Fahoshangshan reared its head. This was the site of the fierce battle of yesterday. The place was full of reminders of cannon roar and war-cries; we could not stand the sight. Horrible is the only word that describes the scene.
From a hill in front of us we saw white smoke rising and spreading a strange odor far and wide; that was the cremation of our brave dead, the altar on which the sacrifice to the country was being burned. Hundreds of patriotic souls must have risen to heaven enveloped in that smoke. We took off our caps and bowed to them. While the mothers at home were peacefully reeling thread and thinking of their beloved sons at the front, while the wives, with their babies on their backs, were sewing and thinking of their dear husbands, these sons and husbands were being crushed to pieces and turned into volumes of smoke.
It is not pleasant to see even a piece of a bloodstained bandage. It is shocking to see dead bodies piled up in this valley or near that rock, dyed with dark purple blood, their faces blue, their eyelids swollen, their hair clotted with blood and dust, their white teeth biting their lips, the red of their uniforms alone remaining unchanged. I could not help shuddering at the sight and thinking that I myself might soon become like that. No one dared to go near and look carefully at those corpses. We only pointed to them from a distance in horror and disgust. Everywhere were scattered blood-covered gaiters, pieces of uniform and underwear, caps, and so on; everywhere were loathsome smells and ghastly sights. Innumerable powder-boxes and empty cartridges, piled up near the skirmish-trenches, told us plainly how desperately the enemy had fired upon the invading army. Wherever we saw the enemy’s dead left on the field, we could not help sympathizing with them. They were enemies, but they also fought for their own country. We buried them carefully, but the defeated heroes of the battle had no names that we could hand down to posterity. At home their parents, their wives, and their children must have been anxiously waiting for their safe return, not knowing, in most cases, when, where, or how their beloved ones had been killed. Almost all of them had a cross on the chest, or an ikon in hand. Let us hope that they passed away with God’s blessing and guidance. The killed and wounded of a defeated army deserve the greatest pity. Of course they are entitled to equal and humane treatment by the enemy, according to the International Red Cross regulations. But defeat we must avoid by all means. Added to the ignominy of defeat, the wounded must have the sorrow of separating from their comrades and living or dying among perfect strangers, with whom they cannot even converse. The case of the killed is still sadder. Some had cards of identification, so that their numbers would eventually tell their names. As far as we could, we informed the enemy of those numbers; but there were many instances where there was no means of identification. Their names are buried in eternal obscurity.
Arrangements were made for our temporary lodgment at Yenchia-tun. When I reached the native house assigned for us that evening, I heard next door the piteous groanings of human beings. I hastened to the spot to see the tortures of hell itself. Fifteen or sixteen Japanese, and one Russian, all seriously wounded, were lying in the yard, heaped one above another, and writhing in an agony of pain. The first one who noticed my coming put his hands together in supplication and begged me for help. What need of his begging? To help is our privilege. I could not imagine why these poor comrades should have been left alone in such a condition. If we had known earlier, perhaps better assistance could have been given. With tears of sympathy I called in surgeons and helped in relieving their suffering. While the surgeons were attending to their wounds they would repeat: “I shall never forget your goodness; I am grateful to you.” These words were squeezed out of the bottom of their hearts, and their eyes were full of tears. On inquiry we learned that for two days they had not had a single grain of rice, or a single drop of water. They were all very severely wounded, with broken legs, shattered arms, or bullet wounds in head or chest. Some there were who could not live more than half an hour longer; even these were taking each other’s hands or stroking each other in sympathy and to comfort. How sad! How pitiful! How boundless must be our sadness and pity when we think that there were over four thousand killed and wounded on our side alone, and that it was impossible to give them the attention they needed! In a short time two of the men began to lose color, and breathe faintly. I ran to their side and watched. Their eyes gradually closed and their lips ceased to quiver. One comrade near by told me that one of these two had left an old mother at home alone.