Human Bullets: A Soldier's Story of Port Arthur

by Tadayoshi Sakurai

We shook hands heartily and, after commenting upon each other’s emaciated appearance, discussed the severity and horror of the recent fight. Captain Matsumaru, who had been wounded, also came along, shouldering his sword, which had been bent out of shape by the shot that had opened a round window in its blade. He too joined earnestly in our conversation about the recent battle. From Surgeon Yasui we obtained a minute description of the sad and horrible scenes at the first aid station.

During the battle the enemy’s shot fell constantly in the vicinity of the native dwellings, and in our temporary bandaging station the danger was very great. One time a big shell came through the roof and exploded in the courtyard, and a large number of the wounded men in the house were blown to pieces, the walls and pillars were spotted with blood and flesh; a shocking sight it was. On another occasion, just as the stretcher-bearers had brought in a wounded soldier from the battle-line with great difficulty, and put him down in the yard, an enemy’s shot came flying and killed the poor man on the spot. These unfortunate fellows had fought valiantly on the battle-line, and had been picked up and carried back with wounds of honor, only to be killed in such a miserable way. The enemy’s projectiles followed our brave men everywhere and killed them without mercy.

The dreary heartrending scene at the first aid is utterly beyond description. One cannot help associating it with the horrors of hell. As soon as a wounded man is carried back, be he officer or private, surgeons and hospital orderlies give him the necessary first aid. As the firing on the battle-line increases in intensity, the number of the wounded increases faster and faster, and the surgeons and others have more than they can do. While attending one man, they notice perhaps that another man begins to breathe hard and lose his color. While giving a few drops of brandy to the second man, a third man may be expiring without any medical aid. Hardly have they had time to dress one man’s wound properly, when ten or fifteen new ones are brought in. The surgeons are surrounded right and left by fatally wounded men. They work hard in their shirt sleeves, their whole attire covered with blood. Some men are bandaged, and others with broken limbs are helped by a splint. Of course all is done hurriedly and is only a temporary aid, but they are kept so busy, and the whole scene is so sad and urgent, that they feel as if they were losing their minds every moment, so much have they on their hands and so little can they actually do.

But those lying in this house or that yard are all brave soldiers. They would not grumble even if medical care were slow in coming, or insufficient when it came. They show no discontent, they have no special desires. Because the heat and excitement of the battle-field is still with them, they want to rush to the first line once more, whenever they hear the yell of fighters or the boom of guns. The surgeons try hard to pacify them and keep them still. Those made insane by wounds in the head raise faint cries of “Tenno Heika Banzai”[49] or of “Rusky,” and stagger about. If a surgeon holds them fast, they angrily rebuke him, saying, “You Rusky!” The result of these frantic movements is generally an abundant loss of blood, soon followed by fainting and death.

On the 27th there was a specially large number of wounded. The farmyard in front of the first aid station was filled with the suffering from one end to the other. While a surgeon is taking care of one, some one behind pulls him by his trousers. On looking back, he finds a man leaning against him and like an innocent baby falling into the sleep that knows no awakening. “Mine is a life that cannot be saved, please kill me at once.” So shouts a man in agony, clutching a surgeon with both hands. One sergeant crept on his hands, dragging his legs to the side of a surgeon. “Please, surgeon, the man over there is one of my company; he breathes so hard that it may be of no use, but please see him once more.” This entreaty was accompanied by tears of sympathy. This kind sergeant was seriously injured, but his love of his subordinate made him brave and gallant. There were many also who themselves were on the brink of the grave, and yet who insisted on their comrades being first attended to, saying that they could well afford to wait. What noble self-denial! The brave men, though panting and gasping, with livid faces and blood-covered bodies, kept the true spirit of Bushido, which could not be soiled with the dust of battle, nor did they lose it with their heart’s blood.

On the morning of the 27th a private came to the first aid station with a distracted, hollow countenance. A surgeon who noticed him asked, “What is the matter with you? Wounded?” No answer came from him, his lips moved in vain. The surgeon asked again, “What is it? I cannot know if you do not tell.” Still no answer was forthcoming. The surgeon thought it very strange, and while gazing at the man’s face he noticed a little blood on it. On closer examination it was found that this man had been shot through the temple from right to left, so that he had lost both sight and hearing. No sooner did the surgeon discover this than he began to attend to his case. But when he tenderly took the poor man’s hand, the soldier grated his teeth and muttered “Revenge.” His body stiffened very rapidly and he soon breathed his last. Poor brave fellow, he did not know he was dying, but was only anxious to fight again.

Here is another case. A wounded private came rushing into the station, swinging both arms as if in great haste. “It is a hot fight, extremely interesting! We shall occupy the place very soon.” The surgeon asked him, “Are you wounded?” “A little at the waist,” was the answer. As the surgeon was very anxious about the issue of the day, he asked the man: “Have you killed many of the enemy? Which side has more casualties?” The man lowered his voice and said, “Once again, there are more casualties on Japan’s side.”

Then the surgeon examined his “little wound” about the waist and was astonished at the seriousness of the case. The flesh of the right hip had been entirely swept away by a shell. He was so proud of his bravery in action and faithful discharge of duty, that he did not know that drop by drop his very life was ebbing away. He talked about the battle cheerfully and in high spirits. “All right! Your bandaging is finished. You may go.” At this word from the surgeon the man stood on his legs, but could not walk a step. The fever of war makes it possible for a man to walk and even run in such a condition. But once brought in by the bearers his nerves relax and he begins to feel the pain all at once. There have been many instances of this, and I was one of the number. I did not feel any pain at all during the two days I was lying on the field, but oh! the pain I began to feel when I was taken to the first aid and bandaged; the agony I then felt was so great that I wished I had died on the field. “To come to life from death,” was certainly my own case, but I could not at all appreciate my rare good fortune at that time. I thought that Heaven was cruel not to have killed me at once, instead of leaving me to suffer pain harder than death itself, in a state half dead and half alive.

While the fighting is yet going on the Red-Cross flags here and there beckon to those who are wounded in the field. The brave men who die on the spot receive no benefit from the great charity, but the wounded receive and monopolize its benefits, and sometimes feel as if they were stealing something from the worthy dead. As soon as a battle begins, the stretcher-carriers go about the field with stretchers on their shoulders, pick up the wounded at the front, and carry them to the first aid. These coolies—or carriers—must also be as brave and earnest as real combatants, else they could not do their work in an extremely dangerous place and moment. They are intrusted with the philanthropic and perilous business of braving sword and shot, searching out the wounded and carrying them to a safe place. They must share their scanty food and precious water with their patients, and must take every possible care of them and comfort and cheer them with loving hearts. The stretcher-bearer’s hard toil and noble work deserve our unbounded gratitude.

The sick and wounded who are sent back to the hospitals at home are clad in white and given the kind and faithful nursing and comforting of the surgeons and women nurses. I myself am one of those who received their care with tears of gratitude. In a home hospital everything is kindness and sympathy, but how is it at the front? In the summer, when I took part in actual engagements, large armies of flies attacked the wretched patients, worms would grow in the mouth or nose, and some of them could not drive the vermin away because their arms were useless. Hospital orderlies would fain have helped these poor sufferers, but their number was so small that there was only one of them to a hundred of the wounded. And the patients were exposed to the scorching sun in the day and to the rain or dew of the night, without covering. Sometimes the patients, after lying long on the field, were in an indescribable condition, and it was necessary to soak them in a stream and scrub them with a broom before dressing their wounds. These horrors were solely due to an unexpectedly large number of casualties produced by the unforeseen severity of the fighting. Those in charge of the surgical work were eager to take care of all as quickly as possible, and send them back to be healed and made ready to rejoin the ranks of the combatants as soon as possible; but as they had to crowd more than a thousand patients into a field hospital provided for two hundred, they were powerless to give any better care to the sufferers.