TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.

—Illustration of title page are Japanese characters (kanji) for “Human Bullet”.

—Illustrations at the beginning of each chapter are Japanese kanji indicating the chapter number. Translation has been provided as caption.

—The transcriber of this project created the book cover image using the front cover of the original book. The image is placed in the public domain.

HUMAN BULLETS

HUMAN BULLETS

A SOLDIER’S STORY OF PORT ARTHUR

BY

TADAYOSHI SAKURAI

LIEUTENANT I. J. A.

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY COUNT OKUMA

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
1907

COPYRIGHT 1907 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Published October 1907

CONTENTS

EDITOR’S PREFACE

MUCH is being said just now about the Japanese as a war-loving nation, likely to become aggressors in the struggle for the control of the Pacific. This little book of Lieutenant Sakurai’s will, perhaps, help to set us right in regard to the spirit in which the Japanese soldier fights. The story was told originally, not for a foreign audience, but to give to his own countrymen a true picture of the lives and deaths, the joys and sorrows, of the men who took Port Arthur. Its enthusiastic reception in Japan, where forty thousand copies were sold within the first year, is the justification of translator and editor in offering it to the American public.

The tale, so simply told, so vivid, so characteristically Japanese in spirit and in execution, is the work of a man of twenty-five who sees the world with all the glow and courage and enthusiasm of youth. Its honesty speaks in every line and word.

If, as seems now possible, the great new lesson set for the Twentieth Century is to be the meeting and mutual comprehension of Eastern and Western civilization and ideals, there can be no better textbook for us Americans than “Human Bullets,” a revelation of the inmost feelings of a Japanese soldier of remarkable intelligence, spirituality, and power of expression. No better opportunity can be found for the study of Japanese psychology and for the gaining of a sympathetic insight into what the loyal sons of Japan love to call “Yamato-Damashii,” the Spirit of Old Japan.

A. M. B.

INTRODUCTION

RECENTLY a retired officer of the Russian army and a correspondent of the “Russ” came to call upon me. When war broke out between Russia and Japan he was at Harbin; soon afterward he was summoned to Port Arthur and set out thither. But by that time communication had been cut off by our army, and in consequence he was obliged to return to Vladivostock. According to my visitor’s story the railway trains from the Russian capital were loaded with decorations and prize money, and the officers and men traveling in the same trains were in the highest of spirits, as if they had been going through a triumphal arch after a victory accomplished. They seemed to believe that the civilized Russian army was to crush into pieces the half-civilized forces of Japan and that the glittering decorations and jingling gold were soon to be theirs. They did not entertain in the least the feeling with which a man enters a tiger’s den or knocks at death’s door. The Japanese fighters, on the contrary, marched bravely to the front, fully prepared to suffer agonies and sacrifice their lives for their sire and their country, with the determination of the true old warrior who went to war ready to die, and never expected to come back alive. The Russian army lacked harmony and cooperation between superiors and inferiors. Generals were haughty, and men weary; while officers were rich, soldiers were left hungry. Such relations are something like those between dogs and monkeys.[1] On the other hand, the Japanese army combined the strictest of discipline with the close friendship of comrades, as if they were all parents and sons, or brothers. Viewed from this standpoint, the success or failure of both armies might have been clearly foreseen even before the first battle. My Russian guest spoke thus, and his observations seem to the point.

The army of our country is strict in discipline and yet harmonious through its higher and lower ranks. The soldiers vie with each other in offering themselves on the altar of their country, the spirit of self-sacrifice prevails to a marked degree. This is the true characteristic of the race of Yamato. And in the siege of Port Arthur this sublime national spirit showed itself especially vigorous. Materially calculated, the loss and damage to our besieging army was enormous. If, however, the spiritual activity this great struggle entailed is taken into consideration, our gain was also immense,—it has added one great glory to the history of our race. Even the lowest of soldiers fought in battle-fields with unflinching courage, and faced death as if it were going home,[2] and yet the bravest were also the tenderest. Many a time they must have shed secret tears, overwhelmed with emotion, while standing in the rainfall of bullets. They respected and obeyed the dictates at once of honor and duty in all their service, and shouted Banzai to His Imperial Majesty at the moment of death. Their display of the true spirit of the Japanese Samurai is radically different from the behavior of men who appear on the fighting line with only the prospect of decorations and money before their eyes.

Lieutenant Sakurai is the younger brother of my friend Mr. Hikoichiro Sakurai. He had a personal share in the tragedy of Port Arthur and is a brave soldier with no little literary talent. I had read with interest the lieutenant’s letters written while at the front, giving an inside view as well as an outside one of the war and describing the delicate workings of the human heart at such a time. Later I was very sorry to hear that he had been seriously wounded in the first general assault. He has written out the facts of the siege, with the left hand spared him by the enemy’s shot. He tells us grand stories and sad stories, portrays the pathetic human nature in which fortitude and tears are woven together, and depicts to us the great living drama of Port Arthur, with his sympathetic pen. I must congratulate him on his success. To make clear the true cause of the unbroken series of successes vouchsafed to our Imperial Army, to make known to the public the loyalty and bravery of many a nameless hero, and thus to comfort the spirits of those countless patriots whose bones lie bleaching in the wilderness of Liaotung, is a kind of work for which we must largely depend upon such men as Lieutenant Sakurai, who have fought and who can write. He has blazed the way with marked success in this most interesting field of war literature.

Shigenobu Okuma.

April, 1906.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

THE Russo-Japanese War! This tremendous struggle is now happily at an end, and the hundreds of thousands of brave and loyal officers and men have come back from the fields with laurels on their heads, and welcomed by a grateful nation. What a triumphant air! How happy they look! But in their hearts is something behind the joy. At the back of their smiles lie hid the deep sorrow and the often forced-back tears for the multitudes of their comrades who, for the cause of their country and of His Majesty, have turned their bodies into the earth of lone Manchuria and cannot share in the delight of the triumphal return.

Toward the end of the Sinico-Japanese War, a certain detachment was ordered home, and before sailing paid a final visit to the graves of their dead comrades. One private stepped out of the ranks and stroked the tombstone of his special chum, saying with falling tears:—

“Dear Kato! I am going back to Japan. We have faced wind and rain together and fought in the hail-storm of bullets together, and you died instead of me, and I am going home in safety. I feel as if I were not doing right. I am very sad to leave you here alone—but be happy, dear Kato, Liaotung Peninsula is now ours! Your bones are buried in the Japanese soil. Be at ease. Understand, Kato?—I have to go.”

He talked as if to a living friend. Every word was from the bottom of his heart, trying to comfort the departed spirit of his patriotic comrade. His loving bosom was full of a sense of the eternal separation of the living from the dead. He was silent and in tears for a while, then wiped his eyes and cheeks, offered water to the grave from his water bottle, and reluctantly resumed his place in the ranks.

That detachment who sailed home from Liaotung Peninsula a decade ago learned on their way that the peninsula was wrested from them. Poor Kato, who died with a smile for his country, did he die in vain? And was his heroism all for nothing? The rage and disappointment of his comforter may well be imagined, for after all loyal Kato’s ashes were not buried in the Japanese soil.

For ten years we had been waiting and preparing for a chance of chastising the unjust. When the invincible Imperial Army first landed on that battle-ground of ten years before, how eagerly they must have been welcomed by the spirits of their dead friends who could not find a permanent rest buried in a place which was once theirs and then was not. When I landed on the peninsula and printed my footsteps on its earth, I cried out with a spontaneous joy: “This is also Japanese soil! Bought by the blood of our brave fellows at arms!”

I paid constant attention while at the front to find traces of those buried there during the previous war, but could not find even a rotten piece of wood marking such a spot. But I felt sure that their spirits were always with us and guiding us in the battles, stirring us up to do our very best for the country and for the sire.

“Beneath this your elder brothers’ ashes are buried! Above here your comrades’ spirits must be soaring, unable to find an eternal place of rest! Men die, but their souls do not perish. Your comrades in the world beyond are fighting with you in this great struggle!” were the words with which I used to stimulate men under my command.

Through the abundant grace of Heaven and the illustrious virtue of His Majesty, the Imperial forces defeated the great enemy both on land and sea. Our arms were crowned with an unparalleled success and our country with awe-inspiring dignity and world-wide glory. And the peninsula wrested from us is once more under our care, the neglected graves of those who perished in the unsuccessful struggle ten years ago are once more being properly attended to. The story of how over one million men left their homes and country, ready and willing to die for the great cause, and of how they passed eighteen months of hardship and privation among the mountains of Liaotung, on the plains of Manchuria, and on the waters of the Yellow Sea and the Sea of Japan, will forever be told to posterity in the history of our country.

The record of the great Russo-Japanese War will be written by the pens of able historians and writers. I simply as an insignificant fighter who took part in what may be called some of the hardest and ugliest battles in the annals of warfare and of strategy, of all times and of all nations, propose herein to describe with a hand not at all familiar with the holding of a pen, recollections of what I personally experienced and observed in the siege of Port Arthur, so that those who have not been in a similar position may picture to themselves the actual scene as best they can.

Tadayoshi Sakurai.

HUMAN BULLETS

Ch. I.

MOBILIZATION

IN the second month of the thirty-seventh year of Meiji,[3] the diplomatic relations between Japan and Russia were severed, and the two nations began hostilities. At the outset our navy dealt a stunning blow to the Russian war vessels at Chemulpo and off Port Arthur. His August Majesty issued a proclamation of war. Mobilization orders were issued to different divisions of the army. At this moment we, the soldiers of Japan, all felt our bones crackle and our blood boil up, ready to give vent to a long-stored energy. Mobilization! How sweetly the word gladdened our hearts, how impatiently we waited to be ordered to the front! What division was mobilized to-day? What one will have its turn to-morrow? How long shall we have to wait? May the order come at once! May we find ourselves in the field without delay! Not that we wished to distinguish ourselves and win honors in the early battles, but that we hated the idea of arriving at the scene after other divisions had borne all the burden of the first struggle. But what could we do without Imperial orders? We were soldiers always ready to “jump into water and fire at the Great Sire’s word of command.”[4] We had to wait for the word “Advance!” How eagerly we watched for that single word, for that order of mobilization, as drought-suffering farmers watch for a rain-cloud in the sky! We offered “mobilization prayers” as they offer “rain prayers.” Wherever we went, whomsoever we met, we talked of nothing but mobilization. At last about the middle of April, the month of cherry-blossoms,[5] emblematic of the spirit of Japan’s warriors, our division received this longed-for order. Ordered to the front! Our garrison was granted the golden opportunity of untrammeled activity. I was at that time the standard-bearer of the regiment. I said to our commander on hearing this glad news: “Hearty congratulations, Colonel; we have just received the order.”

Upon which Colonel Aoki smiled a smile indescribably happy as if he welcomed the order and exclaimed, “It has come at last!”

That was the happiest day we had ever experienced, and I could not help going around, half in frenzy, to the officers of all the companies to carry the news to them. A mysterious kind of spiritual electricity seemed to permeate the whole garrison, composed of the flower of the “Land of the Gods.” Every one, both officers and privates, seemed ready to fight the whole of Russia single-handed. Our souls were already on the great stage of Liaotung, while our bodies still remained in our own country.

The men of the first and second Reserve were none the less anxious and quick to gather round their standard. Some of them were so poor that their wives and children seemed likely to starve without them, others came from the sick beds of old, dying parents;—all must have had cares and anxieties to detain them. But now the emergency had arisen, and the time had come for them to “offer themselves courageously for the State.”[6] What a privilege, they all thought, for a man to be permitted to give his life for the nation’s cause! When we saw them swarm together day after day, our hearts bounded with redoubled joy and strength.

Here is a sad story of this time. Nakamura, a private of the first Reserve, had an invalid wife and a baby of three. They were extremely poor, and the family would starve without the husband. Of course, however, the family trouble had no place in their minds before a national crisis. On the eve of her husband’s departure, the poor emaciated woman gathered all her scanty strength, went to the town near by and bought two go[7] of rice and one sen[8] worth of fuel. This handful of grain and bundle of firewood, are they really as insignificant as they seem to be? Nay, the two go of rice and the sen worth of wood were for the loving wife’s farewell banquet[9] in honor of her husband’s great opportunity. And yet at the time of separation, the wife was sick and the child starving, and the husband going to give his life to his country! In the morning, before daybreak, Nakamura bade good-by to wife and baby, and without a farewell from his neighbors hastened bravely to his post. Such was only one out of hundreds of thousands of similar heartrending instances. The kind and sympathetic people left at home at once began to relieve these unfortunate families, so that the men at the front could devote their whole attention and energy to their duties as soldiers.

When the men of the first and second Reserve arrived in their garrison, some of them were rejected on account of insufficient health or physique. How sad and crestfallen they looked when thus rejected! “Please, can’t you take me in some way? They gave me such a great send-off when I left the village, they banzaied[10] me over and over again when my train started. I came here determined not to go home again. How can I stand the disgrace of going back to my neighbors as a useless failure? Do please take me with you,” they would entreat. The officers in charge had great difficulty in soothing and comforting these “failures” and persuading them to go home.

“Good luck to you! Your family will be well taken care of. All right, eh?”

“All right, all right! I will bring you a dozen or two of the Russkies’s heads when I come back!”

“My dear Saku, don’t die of an illness; if you die, die on the battle-field. Don’t worry about your brother!”

“I am ready not to tread on the soil of Japan again with this pair of legs.[11] Be happy with me, when you hear that I died in battle.”

“Thank you all for seeing me off so kindly. I will return your kindness by distinguishing myself in the field.”

Words like these sounded at the doorways of the barracks everywhere. The men anxious to serve; the nation to help their families; was this not the secret of our splendid victory?

We were busy night and day until the mobilizing was completed. Some were assigned to field regiments, others were put on the waiting-list, and soon we were ready to start at a moment’s notice.

Those who were left at home to fill up vacancies later on were sorely disappointed, and entreated their officers to allow them to join the fighting regiments at once. Their comrades had to comfort and encourage, cheer and praise these disappointed men, explaining to them that the war with Russia was not likely to come to an end in six months or even in a year; that their turn was sure to come before long; that it was not at all a disgrace to be on the waiting-list, on the contrary that they were to have the honor of dealing the finishing stroke to the enemy.

After our regiment was ready to start, one sad affair took place. Togo Miyatake was one of those who were lodged in a Buddhist temple called Kwan-nonji to wait for a later summons. He was in good health and excellent spirits. When leaving home he had promised his parents, brothers, and friends that he would be among the first to help win battles. Now, instead of dying in the field, he had to wait, doing nothing. He did not know when he would be sent. This was too great a humiliation for him to bear. He thought it better to kill himself, so that his spirit, freed from the shackles of the body, might be at the front to work with his living comrades. Left in such a situation as he was, poor Togo’s narrow but strong sense of patriotism made him resolve on suicide as the most honorable way of escape. Late one night when his friends were fast asleep he scribbled a line of farewell to this effect:

“I am more sorry than I can possibly bear not to be at the front with the others. No one would take me in spite of my entreaties. I will prove my loyalty with death.”

Thus prepared, he drew a dagger from a whitewood sheath[12] and cut across the abdomen, whispering Banzai to the Emperor in a shower of tears. This took place on the 12th of May in a lonely corner of an old tottering temple, when the sound of rain dripping from the eaves made the sad scene still sadder. But good Heaven seemed to take compassion on such a faithful soldier. His friends awoke and came to the rescue. He was sent to a hospital. His wound healed in due time, he was discharged, and later he was allowed to go to the front. Cold reason may call this man a fool, or a fanatic, but his heart was pure and true. This incident testifies to the childlike simplicity of devotion that prevailed throughout the whole army.

Russia prided herself on her vast territory and immense soldiery, but her people did not believe in the Czar’s virtue. They were oppressed and trampled upon by his ministers and officials. They were therefore not at all anxious to support the government in this war. Cossacks had to drive the unwilling men to Manchuria at the point of the bayonet. Yes, Russian fighters were brave and strong, but lacking in morale, the first requisite of a successful war. We, on the contrary, had an invincible spirit called Yamato-damashii,[13] disciplined under the strict rules of military training.

All the manifold details of business connected with mobilization were prosecuted with mechanical exactness and promptitude, as had been previously planned out. Everything was now ready and we were all eagerly waiting for the day of departure.

What an exciting happy time we had, while thus waiting and watching! We stroked our arms, itching for action, sharpened our swords, pictured to ourselves what we would do on the actual battle-field. Many a soldier must have flourished his glittering sword, as I did, and smiled significantly in the midnight moonlight of the quiet garrison ground.

When all necessary preparations were finished, our colonel put us through an armed inspection. The large drill-ground from one end to the other was filled with thousands of men and officers, each provided with his outfit,—arms, food, clothing and so on. Soon they were to brave, shoulder to shoulder, flying shot and thundering noise, pestilential rain and poisonous fog, eating together and sleeping together as comrades and brothers in danger and privation.

To the stirring sound of trumpets, our famous regimental flag was brought to the centre and an imposing ceremony of welcome to the flag was conducted by Colonel Aoki. The lives of the brave three thousand gathered round him were all in his hands. He has since told me that he was overwhelmed with a sense of great responsibility and with a feeling of proud exhilaration when he saw on that occasion how eager and ready they all were. At the conclusion of this ceremony our commander gave us a speech of instruction, in such thrilling words as made us bite our lips and tremble with emotion.

At the conclusion of such an armed inspection a few days later, Brigadier-General Yamanaka, then in command of our brigade, gave us a written piece of advice, in which the following words were contained:—

“The flag of your regiment has already won a glorious name in the Japan-China War. Its fame is impressed upon the minds of all. You have the responsibility of keeping this honor unsullied. You are in duty bound to add to its splendor. And whether you will do so or not, solely depends upon your determination. Remember, that if you once bring a spot of disgrace upon the flag an opportunity of washing it away will not easily come. Do not destroy by a single failure the honor which your flag has retained since its first battle. I deem it my highest glory to share in ups and downs, to live and die with you officers and men beneath this historic flag.

“We are the main support[14] of His Majesty, guardians of the safety of our country. The only way we can fulfill our grave responsibility is always to remember the five items of his August Rescript;[15] to do our duty with sincere devotion; and to put into practice the sworn resolutions of our hearts. Our Emperor has now given us another instruction, saying,[16] ‘We rely upon your loyalty and bravery in achieving this end (victory) and keeping unsullied the glory of our Empire.’ How shall we respond to these gracious words of His Majesty? I with you shall put forth every energy to bring this great struggle to a speedy and successful termination, so that we may make good the nation’s trust in us, and relieve His Gracious Heart of anxiety. If we can thus secure for our country a permanent peace, our humble efforts will be amply rewarded.”

Our already grave position was made tenfold graver by this implicit trust put on us by His Majesty and the nation. How did we bear this tremendous weight of duty and responsibility?

Ch. II.

OUR DEPARTURE

ABOUT a month after the mobilization was ordered, another happy day came to us; the 21st of May, a day we shall never forget to the end of our lives.

While we had been waiting for this day, we had heard news of repeated victories of our forces in and around Chiu-lien-cheng.

We were frantically joyous over the news, but at the same time could not help feeling a foolish anxiety. “If they were making such steady progress out there, might not the war be at an end by the time we were starting for the front? A certain division was to go in a few days. When should we have our turn? While we were kept idle, other divisions might monopolize all the victories there could be. No room would be left for us unless we hurried up!” So, therefore, when we received the welcome order, there was none who was not quite ready to start at once.

On that long-looked-for day, we were ordered to assemble on the parade ground at six o’clock in the morning.

Our joy was boundless, the time had come at last for the greatest action of our lives. “The brave man is not without tears, but those tears are not shed in the moment of separation,” so the expression goes. Of course, we were as ready and willing to welcome the worst as the best, but because of this very resolve and expectation we could not help thinking of eternal separation,—parent from child, man from wife, and brother from sister. “Tears even in the eyes of an oni.”[17] How could we be without unseen tears, though valiantly forced back under a cheerful smile!

On the night previous to departure, I took out my old friends’ photographs to look at, made tidy the drawers of my desk, and so arranged everything that my affairs would be quite clear to my surviving friends. And then I went to sleep my last sleep on the mats peacefully and contentedly.

At three o’clock in the morning, the cannon roared three times from the tower of the castle. I jumped out of bed, cleansed my person with pure water, donned the best of my uniforms, bowed to the east where the great Sire resides, solemnly read his Proclamation of War, and told His Majesty that his humble subject was just starting to the front. When I offered my last prayers—the last, I then believed they were—before the family shrine of my ancestors, I felt a thrill going all through me, as if they were giving me a solemn injunction, saying, “Thou art not thy own. For His Majesty’s saké, thou shalt go to save the nation from calamity, ready to bear even the crushing of thy bones, and the tearing of thy flesh. Disgrace not thy ancestors by an act of cowardice.” My family and relatives gathered around me to give me a farewell cup of saké, and to congratulate me on my joyous start.

“Don’t worry at all about your home affairs—put into practice all your long-cherished good resolutions. For your death your father is quite ready. Add a flower of honor to our family name by distinguished service to the country.” This from my father.

“Please, sir, don’t be anxious about me. This is the greatest opportunity a soldier can possibly have. Only, do take good care of your delicate self.” This from myself.

Such an exchange of sentiments between father and son must have taken place almost simultaneously in a great many families.

When the time had come for me to start, I took up and put on the sword that had been placed in the family shrine, drank the farewell cup of water[18] my dear mother had filled, and left my home with light heart and light feet, expecting to cross its threshold no more.

One officer was just going to the front in high spirits when, on the night previous to his departure, his beloved wife died, leaving a little baby behind. He had, however, no time to see her laid in her last place of rest. Bravely, though with tears hardly suppressed, he started early in the morning. Private sorrow must give way before national calamity, but human nature remains the same forever. This unfortunate officer’s sad dreams in camp must have frequently wandered around the pole[19] marking her burial-place, and about the pillow of the baby crying after its mother.

At 6 a.m. our regiment was drawn up in array, the regimental flag was welcomed to the solemn and majestic tune of “Ashibiki,” and we all looked expectantly toward our colonel, who was to guide us through “savage sands and barbarian winds.”[20] The brave soldiers felt themselves to be the hands and feet of the commander. We had all said good-by to parents and homes: henceforward, our commander was to be our father, the boundless plain of Manchuria our home. Words utterly fail to describe that sense of mutual dependence which we felt at this moment toward each other, the one to command and the other to obey.

The colonel gazed down the ranks from one end to the other and read aloud his last instructions before leaving the home-land. Then at his initiative we banzaied His Majesty the Highest Commander three times over at the tops of our voices.

“Ah! a group of strong warriors has arisen! they rival each other in achievements of arms at the word of our great Sire. Where they go, the heavens will open and the earth crumble!”[21]

“First battalion, forward march!”

This was the first word of command Colonel Aoki gave his subordinates at their departure to the front. His voice confirmed our resolution to go forward, and brave, at his order, the strongest parapet or the fiercest fire of the enemy.

Our long-drawn, serpent-like regiment, sent off with the hearty and sincere Banzai of the people, began to move on step by step. The noise of our marching feet becoming fainter and fainter in the distance, the sound of our rifles and swords softly rubbing against our clothes, how gallant and stirring these must have sounded to the enthusiastic ears of the nation! The trumpet that resounded from near and far was our “good-by” to our dear countrymen. Old and young, waving the national flag and shouting Banzai in thunder-like chorus, made us the more determined to deserve their gratitude. Whenever in the field we made a furious assault, we felt as if this chorus of Banzai were surging from behind to stimulate and encourage us. Our own war-cry may well be said to have been an echo of this national enthusiasm. In the morning on the battle-field amid ear-rending cannon roar, in the chilly evening of a field encampment, this cry of Banzai from the heart of the whole nation was always present with us.

My humble self was honored with the important duty of bearing the regimental standard. The low bows and enthusiastic cheers at the sight of the flag, from crowds of people standing by the roadsides, stirred my spirits more and more, and also made me fear lest I might fail in my duty. During our march, Mr. Kojima, who had instructed me for five years in the high school, noticed me, came forward two or three steps, from among the watching crowd, with overwhelming joy in his face, and whispered in my ear: “Strive hard, Sakurai.”

This brief but forcible exhortation from my kind teacher rang in my ears throughout the campaign and urged me to be worthy of his teaching.

War-songs sung by groups of innocent kindergarten-children—how they shook our hearts from the foundation! Old women bowed with age would rub rosaries between their palms, muttering prayers, and saying: “Our great Buddha will take care of you! Do your best for us, Mr. Soldiers.” How pathetically their zeal impressed us!

Our transports, the Kagoshima Maru, the Yawata Maru, etc., were seen at anchor in the offing. The men began to go on board. Sampans, going and coming, covered the sea. Along the shore, the hills were black with men, women, and children from village and town, waving the national flag and crying Banzai at the tops of their voices. The farewell hand-shake of our colonel and the Governor of Ehime-Ken added to the impressive scene.

When all were on board and a farewell flag had been run up, our transports began to move on—whither? To the west—to the west—leaving dark volumes of smoke behind! Suddenly clouds gathered in the sky—the rain began to fall, first slowly and then with violence!

Eager brethren! enthusiastic countrymen! Did you expect us soon to return in triumphal procession, when you saw us off; thousands of us starting in good cheer and high spirits?

Ch. III.

THE VOYAGE

WITH the nation’s Banzai still ringing in our ears, our imaginations flying to stupendous fights over mountains and across rivers, we were being carried far toward the west. Where were we going? Where to land? What was to be the scene of our fighting? All this nobody knew except the colonel as commander of our transportation, and the captains of the transports, to whom secret orders had been given. Even they did not know much at the time of our starting—they were to receive instructions from time to time. Were we going to Chênnam-pu, or to the mouth of the Yalu, or toward Haicheng, or to the siege of Port Arthur? We talked only of our guesses and imaginings. But the place of landing or of fighting did not matter much to us—we were happy at the thought of coming nearer and nearer to the time when we could display all the courage we had, at the word of command from His Majesty and at the beckoning of our regimental flag.

Toward the dusk of the evening on the 21st, we passed through the Strait of Shimonoseki. We took a last view of our beloved Nippon and felt the pang of separation.

“Fare thee well, my land of Yamato! Farewell, my sweet home!”

That night the Sea of Japan was calm and the shower of the day had dispersed the clouds. All was quiet; the thousands of soldiers slept soundly. Which way did their dreams fly, this first evening of their expedition—to the east? or to the west? The gentle waves, the smooth motion of the engines, an occasional long-drawn breath only added to the calm of the scene. The next morning we found the sky well wiped without leaving half a cloud—it was truly Japan’s weather. All the ships at this moment were hurrying on at full speed off the Isle of Mutsure, sighting the hills of Tsushima far away in the distance, when, lo! a hawk[22] descended to the deck of our transport. The men chased him hither and thither and rejoiced at this good omen. For some time the bird remained with us, now perching on the mast, now flying about over the ship. After blessing the future of the brave officers and men in this way, he flew to the next transport to do the same errand of cheering up their hearts.

Very soon time began to hang heavy on our hands. To break the monotony of the long voyage, an appeal to our “hidden accomplishments” was the last but most effective resource. Some would recount their past experiences, others tell ghost stories or jokes, still others recite or sing popular love-episodes, each joining a little group according to his taste or inclination. Every now and then there appeared one bold enough to try the rustic dance of wrestlers, or one clever enough to imitate a professional story-teller, using his knapsack as a book-rest and playing with a fan in his hand, just as a professional reciter would.

Cheers and applause resounded through the small heaven and earth of the steamer, and the performers’ faces were full of pride and elation. Others now began to emulate, and from among men piled up like potatoes, story-tellers, conjurers, and performers of various tricks would come forward to amuse the audience.

Proceeding to the front to fight, and to fight never to return, all on this voyage, both men and officers, felt and behaved like one large family, and vied with each other to entertain and beguile the tedious moments, squeezing out all their wit in their tricks and performances and bursting the air and their sides with merry laughter.

Tsushima was then left behind us in mist and haze, and we steered our course northward across the sea, with Korean mountains and peaks still in sight. Our amusements continued day after day, with occasional playing of the piano by clumsy-handed men and shouting and screaming of war-songs on deck. When tired of the game of go[23] or of wrestling, we would discuss the plan of campaign and wish that the curtain might be raised at once, so that we could show off our skill on the real stage of the battle-field, not only to astonish the enemy, but to elicit the applause of the world-wide audience.

I remember very well that it was on the 23d of May that our captain asked for our autographs as a memento and family heirloom. I took out a sheet of paper; at its top I sketched the S. S. Kagoshima Maru steering its way, and underneath Colonel Aoki and all the other officers wrote their names. Thirty-seven names this piece of paper contained—only a few of men now surviving! What a valuable and sad memorial it has become! Crippled and useless, I live now as a part and parcel of that memorial, to envy those on the list whose bodies were left in Manchuria and whose honored spirits rest in the Temple of Kudan.[24]

On the forenoon of the 24th we were passing near the Elliot Isles, when we saw many lines of smoke floating parallel to the water and sky. It was our combined fleet greeting the approach of our transports. What an inspiring sight, to see our fleet out on the ocean! Presently a cruiser came up to us and continued its course with us. It must have brought some orders for us.

Our landing was near at hand; soon we were to appear on the real stage. And yet we did not know where we were to land; or in what direction we were to march.

All with one accord hoped—Port Arthur!

Ch. IV.

A DANGEROUS LANDING

WHERE were we to land? This was the question that exercised our minds from the beginning to the end of our voyage. To land at Taku-shan and attack Haicheng and Liao Yang in the north, was one of the suggestions made. To go straight to the Gulf of Pechili and land at Iakao was another. A third suggestion was that we were to land at a certain point on the coast of Liaotung, and then go south to attack the stronghold of Port Arthur. Of course, all the views and opinions advanced were changed according to the direction in which our bows pointed. But at last, when we saw on the chart that we were sailing south of the Elliot Isles, all agreed at once that our destination was some spot leading to Port Arthur. What excitement and joy when we saw the transports and the guard-ships proceeding together toward that spot! After a while we began to notice a dark gray, long, slender piece of land dimly visible through thick mist. That was indeed the Peninsula of Liaotung! the place where, ten years before, so many brave and loyal sons of Yamato had laid their bones, and the field of action on which our own bodies were to be left! Since the previous evening the sky had been dark, the gray mist and clouds opening and shutting from time to time, the wind howling at our mast-heads, and the waves beating against our bows flying like snowflakes and scattering themselves like fallen flowers. Behind us there was only boundless cloud and water. Beyond those clouds was the sky of Nippon! The enthusiastic Banzais of the cheering nation, the sound of rosaries rubbed together in old women’s hands, the war-songs coming from the innocent lips of children—all these seemed still to reach our ears, conveyed by the swift winds.

We were to land at a gulf called Yenta-ao, on the eastern coast of the peninsula, to the southwest of Pitsu-we. This was only a small inlet on the sea of China. There was no good harbor in the vicinity except Talienwan, on the east side of Liaotung Peninsula; but that good harbor was then in possession of the enemy; so we had to risk everything and land on this less desirable spot, from the strategic necessity of the case. The sea and the currents of that neighborhood are both very treacherous; a storm of the least degree would make it extremely difficult, not only to land, but even to stay there at anchor. Moreover, the water is very shallow and a ship of any size must anchor one ri[25] away from the shore. When the wind is strong, a ship is sure to drift several miles further to the offing. Such being the case, we can well imagine the difficulty and anxiety those in charge of our debarkation experienced. Just as mother birds watch over their young, our convoys were watching us far and near, to protect our landing from surprise by the enemy. But the wind that had begun to blow in the morning became fiercer and fiercer, angry seas and frantic waves rose in mountains, transports and sampans were shaken like flying leaves, Chinese junks chartered by our government, raising their masts like forest trees, were being tossed and teazed by the winds as in the time of the great Mongol invasion in the Bay of Hakata.[26]

Could we land safely in such a storm? Were we to face the enemy at once on going ashore? We were like horses harnessed to a carriage—we did not know anything about our surroundings. All was known only to our colonel, in whose hands lay our lives. We did know, however, that two things were ahead of us, and they were—landing and marching. After a short wait, our landing was begun in spite of the risk; evidently the condition of the campaign did not admit delay. Hundreds of sampans, boats, and steam-launches—whence they had come, we did not know—surrounded the transports to carry men and officers away. Tremendous waves, now rising like high mountains and now sinking like deep valleys, seemed to swallow men and boats together. Carrying the flag with due solemnity, I got into the boat with the colonel. Innumerable small boats were to be fastened to steam-launches like beads on a rosary. Rolling and tumbling, these rosaries of boats would whistle their way to the shore. Our regimental flag braved the wind and waves and safely reached its destination. Ah, the first step and the second on this land occupied by the enemy! It seemed as if we had left our Fatherland but yesterday, and now, not in a dream, but in reality, we were treading on the soil of promise!

What an exquisite joy, to plant once more the Imperial Flag of His Illustrious Virtues on the Peninsula of Liaotung, also the soil of Japan, consecrated by the blood of our brothers!

The storm went from bad to worse; it seemed impossible to complete the landing, neither could the men go back to the transports. The only thing possible was to trust to the mercy of winds and waves, jump into the water and struggle for the shore as soon as the boats came near. The experience of my friend Captain Tsukudo is an illustration of the extreme difficulty of landing.

Captain Tsukudo, with over sixty men under his care, was in a boat, which was towed away from the transport by a small launch. His boat rolled in the waves like a ball and was in constant danger of being swallowed in the vortex. The tug cast off her tow and fled for safety. The gigantic ho[27] which sweeps through ten thousand miles without rest, even his wings are said to be broken by the waves of the sea. Much less could a small boat stand the force of such waves. It seemed as if the bravest of men had no other choice than being “buried in the stomachs of fishes.” Rescue seemed impossible. Heaven’s decree they must obey. Death they were ready for, but to die and become refuse of the sea, without having struck one blow at the enemy now close at hand, was something too hard for them to bear. With bloodshot eyes and hair on end, the captain tried in every way to save his men, but alas! they were like a man that falls into an old well in the midst of a lonely meadow, not sinking, yet not able to climb up—the root of the vine that he clings to as a life rope being gnawed by a wild rat!

Captain Tsukudo jumped into the sea and swam toward the shore with all his might; but the waves were too relentless to yield to his impatient and impetuous desire to rescue his men. They swallowed him, vomited him, tossed and hurled him without mercy; the brave captain was at last exhausted and fainted away before reaching the shore. Heaven, however, did not give up his case; he was picked up on the beach, and when he recovered consciousness he found himself perfectly naked. Without waiting to dress, he ran to the headquarters of the landing forces, and with frantic gestures asked for help for the men in his boat; he could not weep, for tears were dried up; he could not speak, for his mouth was parched, but he succeeded in getting his men saved.

Another boat loaded with baggage and horses capsized; one of the poor animals swam away toward the offing. The soldier in charge of the horse also swam to catch the animal. Before he reached it, the steed went down and soon afterward the faithful man also disappeared in the billows. Poor, brave soul! his love of his four-legged charge was stronger even than that of the stork who cries after its young in the lonesome night. Though he did not face the enemy’s bullets, he died a pioneer’s death on the battle-field of duty.

Was the Canaan of our hopes the country that we had pictured to ourselves? Contrary to our expectations, it did not look at all like a place our brethren had bought with their blood ten years before. It was simply a desolate wilderness, a deserted sand-plain, a boundless expanse of rolling country, a monotonous insipid canvas, with dark red and light gray all over. Compared with the detailed, variegated picture of Japan that we had been accustomed to, what a sense of untouched and unfinished carelessness! What a change of scene to see hundreds of natives swarm to the spot of our landing, with horses and wagons, to get their job! Were they men or animals? With ill-favored faces, they would whisper to each other and pass on. As knavish fellows they deserve anything but love, but as subjects of an ill-governed empire they certainly deserve pity. At first they dreaded the Japanese; they stared at us from a distance, but did not come near us; probably because they had been robbed of their possessions by the Russians, and their wives and daughters had been insulted by them. The Japanese army, from the very first, was extremely careful to be just and kind to the natives and encouraged them to pursue their daily work in peace. Consequently they soon began to be friendly with us and to welcome us eagerly. However, they are a race of men who would risk even their lives to make money, and would live in a pig-pen with ten thousand pieces of gold in their pockets. How our army suffered from the treachery of these money-grubbers will be told later on.

“Ata, ata! Wo, wo!”

This strange cry we constantly heard at the front—it is the natives’ way of driving horses and cows. Their skill in managing cattle and horses is far beyond ours. We could not help being struck with the manner in which the animals obeyed their orders; they would go to right or left at the sound of these signals, and would move as one’s own limbs without the slightest use of whips. The relation between these natives and their cattle and horses is like that between well-disciplined soldiers and their commanders; not the fear of whip and scolding, but a voluntary respect and submission, is the secret of military discipline and success. The fact that the Russian soldiers were lacking in this important factor became clear later by the testimony of the captives.

After some companies of our division had landed with much ado, the storm grew worse and the landing was suspended. The colonel, an aide-de-camp, the interpreter, the chaplain, and myself, accompanied by a handful of guards, crossed the wilderness and wended our way toward Wangchia-tun, fixed as our stopping-place for that night. We busied ourselves with the map and the compass, while the interpreter asked question after question of the natives. I consulted a Chinese-Japanese conversation book, and asked them in broken words, “Russian soldiers, have they come?” to which they replied, “To Port Arthur they have fled.” We were of course disappointed not to encounter the long-looked-for antagonists at once!

Seven ri’s journey through a sand plain brought us to the willow-covered village Wangchia-tun in the rainy and windy evening, when strange birds were hastening to their roosts.

Stupid-looking old men and dirty-faced boys gathered round us like ants and looked at us with curiosity. Long pipes were sticking out from the mouths of the older men; they seemed utterly unconcerned or ignorant of the great trouble in their own country. The filth and dirt of the houses and their occupants were beyond description; we newcomers to the place had to hold our noses against the fearful smells. Military camp though it was in name, we only found shelter under the eaves of the houses, with penetrating smells attacking us from below, and surrounded by large and small Chinese highly scented with garlic! Before our hungry stomachs could welcome the toasted rice-balls, our olfactory nerves would rebel against the feast.

We who had succeeded in landing spent our first night in Liaotung in this condition. The spirits of the deceased comrades of ten years before must have welcomed us with outstretched arms and told us what they expected of us. Under tents, half exposed to the cold and wet, the men slept the good sleep of the innocent on millet straw, and an occasional smile came to their unconscious lips. What were they dreaming of? Some there were who sat by the smoky fire of millet straw all the night through, buried in deep thought and munching the remnant of their parting gifts with their lunch boxes hanging from the stone wall.

The day was about to dawn, when suddenly thunder and lightning arose in the western sky. Not lightning, but flames of fire; not thunder, but roar of cannon! Furious winds added to the dreariness of the scene; the sky was the color of blood.

The great battle of Nanshan! We could not keep still from fullness of joy and excitement.

Ch. V.

THE VALUE OF PORT ARTHUR

THAT glorious January 2, of the thirty-eighth year of Meiji, will never be forgotten to the end of time. That happy day of the victorious New Year was doubly crowned by the birth of an Imperial grandson and by the capitulation of Port Arthur! There has never been a New Year in all our history so auspicious and so memorable!

The fall of Port Arthur was an event that marked an epoch in the history of the world! Do not forget, however, that this result was achieved only through the shedding of rivers of blood. General Kuropatkin had boasted of the invincible strength of the fortress and had said that it could live out over a year against the fiercest attacks imaginable. But the incessant, indefatigable rain of bullets and shells upon the place by the invading army obliged the Russians to surrender in less than two hundred and fifty days. Between the first battle at Nanshan and the final capitulation of Stoessel, the bodies of our soldiers became hills and their blood rivulets. Spectators often doubted our success. But the spirit of Yamato, as firm as the iron of a hundred times beating and as beautiful as the cherries blooming on ten thousand boughs—that tamashii[28] proved too powerful for the completest of mechanical defense. At the same time, we cannot but admire the stubborn courage with which the Russian generals and soldiers defended their posts under circumstances of extreme difficulty and suffering. We fully endorse the remark of a foreign critic: “Well attacked and well defended!”

Port Arthur had been attracting the keen attention of the whole world ever since the Japan-China war. Russia had spent nearly ten years and hundreds of millions of yen[29] in fortifying the place. It had been considered of such strategic importance that its fall would mark the practical termination of the Russo-Japanese struggle, just as the fall of Plevna decided the fate of the Russo-Turkish war. The fortress of Port Arthur embraces within its arms its town and harbor—innumerable hills of from two to five hundred metres in height form a natural protection to the place. To these natural advantages was added the world-famous skill of the Russians in fortification. Every hill, every eminence had every variety of fortification, with countless cannon, machine-guns, and rifles, so that an attack either from the front or from the side could easily be met. Each spot was made still more unapproachable by ground-mines, pitfalls, wire-entanglements, etc. There was hardly any space where even an ant could get in unmolested. It was surely impregnable. On the other hand, our position was extremely disadvantageous. We had to climb a steep hill, or go down into a deep valley, or up an exposed slope to attack any Russian fort. The position of the whole place was such that it was as easy to defend as it was difficult to attack. Moreover, the Russians had on the spot enough provisions and ammunition to withstand a longer siege, without relying upon supplies from outside.

But there is no single instance in history of any fort that has withstood siege permanently; sooner or later it must either capitulate or else lose all its men and fall. The same will also be the case in the future. The only question is whether a fort will fall as easily as a castle of amé.[30] Sebastopol withstood the allied armies of England and France for more than three hundred and twenty days, but eventually fell after the docks had been destroyed, the forts blown up, and the town utterly demolished. At Kars the gallant General Williams, with only three months’ provision and three days’ ammunition, supported by the Turkish soldiers, withstood for seven months the Russian army of fifty thousand men; but it fell at last. The Russian General Muravieff admired the hero of Kars and sent him this message:—

“All the world and future generations will marvel at your valor and discipline. Let us have the glory of consulting together about the way of satisfying the requirements of war, without doing harm to the cause of humanity.”

Paris resisted the Prussian siege for one hundred and thirty-two days before surrendering. These are only a few remarkable examples in history; but all besieged places have fallen sooner or later. The only purpose a fort can serve is to resist the besiegers as long as possible, so as to hinder the general plan of the enemy. This principle applied to Port Arthur; it had to detain as many as possible of the Japanese in the south, for as many days as possible, in order to let Kuropatkin develop his plan in North Manchuria without hindrance. For this great object, General Stoessel held fast to the marvelously fortified place and tried his best to keep off the besieging army. Supposing that Port Arthur had not fallen before the great battle of Moukden, what would it have meant to our general plan of campaign? This supposition will make the true value of Port Arthur clear to every mind. Therefore they tried to hold it, and we endeavored to take it; a desperate defense on one side and a desperate attack on the other. General Nogi bought the fortress at a tremendous price—the sacrifice of tens of thousands of lives; but once in our possession, its value became greater than ever.

That such an invincible and unapproachable place was taken in eight months tells how fierce was the struggle. The siege of Port Arthur was one of the bloodiest contests that the world has known. In modern history, the siege of Plevna had until then been considered the most sanguinary. The great but unfortunate artist, Vereshtchagin, who went to the bottom of the sea outside Port Arthur with Admiral Makaroff, painted for posterity the scenes of Plevna. If he had survived to see the last of Port Arthur, he must have portrayed a scene even more bloody. Mr. George Kennan, the war-correspondent of the “Outlook,” described this siege as representing the shriek of the lowest hell on this earthly abode of ours. And these horrible scenes were necessitated by the strategic value of Port Arthur itself.

How was Port Arthur besieged and attacked? The answer to this question is the centre and object of my little sketch; hence this brief explanation of its value.

The night of our landing at Liaotung, we heard the din of battle arising from Nanshan, the only entrance to Port Arthur. Let us now return to that battle.

Ch. VI.

THE BATTLE OF NANSHAN

THE thunder and lightning in the direction of Nanshan became fiercer and fiercer as time went on. How was it being fought? With what courage and perseverance were our comrades acquitting themselves? Was the place already occupied, or were they still struggling on? We must hurry forward to take part in this our first battle; it was an opportunity too great for us to miss. How soon should we be ordered to march? We were thus impatient and fidgeting, our minds racing toward Nanshan. But, on the other hand, we did not know whether the battalions to follow us had accomplished their landing in safety or not. The messenger sent for news had not come back after a day and night. The colonel had only five hundred men in hand. What a slender force! Would our commander venture out with this handful of men? His anxious face told us that he could not lead us at once into the fight. Were we merely to watch it from a distance, as if it were a fire on the other side of a river, without offering to help? We began to be disappointed. Of course the prospect of the war was long—the curtain had just risen; this Nanshan could not be the last act. But it was tantalizing to be on the spot and yet not to encounter the enemy, to hear the din of battle and yet not be able to join!

All things come to him who waits. We received the following orders:—

“Proceed without delay to join the Second Army under General Oku at Nanshan.”

This was proclaimed by our colonel, who was full of joy and eagerness—his voice rang with energy and enthusiasm. Both men and officers welcomed the news as they would glad tidings from heaven. They were more than ready to start. March! tear on! We spread our legs as wide as possible. We kicked and spurned village after village, field after field. We did not think of how many miles we ran. With the enemy’s visage lurking before our eyes, we did not feel any pain or fatigue; the drops of perspiration mixed with dust formed a mask over our faces—but what did it matter? Our water bottles were emptied ere long, our throats were dry and parched, we were almost suffocating, but not a single man was out of rank. We all looked toward the supposed post of the enemy, and ran forward. The sound of roaring cannon made us forget fatigue, difficulty, and pain.

“Is Nanshan still holding out?”

“They’re just in the thick of the fight—hurry on, men!”

Such conversations were frequently heard between the coolies coming back from Nanshan and the men now marching to it. It sounds foolish, but we all wished that Nanshan would not yield before our arrival. Perhaps we were conceited enough to think that, without the help of us fresh men, our comrades would be too exhausted to occupy the place. When we saw on our way two or three captured officers being escorted to our headquarters, we were half happy to have a first sight of the defeated enemy and half afraid lest Nanshan had already been taken!

I wish to say in passing that in the army a sharp line is drawn between the things that may be granted to the soldiers when possible and those that must not be allowed under any circumstances. This is particularly the case in time of a march. In a march for practice, or in a march in time of war, but not for an actual engagement, as much rest and as ample a supply of provisions are allowed as possible. But when we march to a fight, we go on even without food or water, or in spite of a heavy storm. Each soldier carries a knapsack about ten kwan[31] in weight, and has only one bottleful of water to drink. When he has emptied it, he cannot get one drop more. Day after day, he rests and sleeps in a field-encampment; in pouring rain or howling storm, he is not allowed to take shelter even under the eaves of a house. Exhaustion or pain is no reason for an exception. He has no time to wipe the perspiration from his face, which soon becomes white with dried-up salt. Panting and suffocating, he struggles on. It seems cruelty to subject men to this ordeal, but they must sacrifice everything to duty. Even one single soldier must not be missing, even one single rifle must not be lacking from the skirmish line. And after such a hard march, they engage in a severe fight at once; so, therefore, the success or failure of the battle is practically settled during the march. Hence the great importance of training men in time of peace in waterless marches, night marches, and quick marches. This practice may seem needlessly inflicted hardship, but its true value is made clear when it comes to a real fight.

To return to our story, we pressed on in great enthusiasm or rather in a state of frenzy, thinking all the while of the first battle at Nanshan. When we came near our destination, we saw cone-shaped tents nestling under the trees or on the sides of the hills. They were our field-hospitals. The large number of these tents made us very anxious about the issue of the struggle. Stretcher after stretcher would bring fresh patients and hurry back to the line of battle to fetch more. The wounded who could walk accompanied the stretchers on foot in large numbers and panting all the way. Both those on foot and those on stretchers were covered with blood and mud, which told more eloquently than words the story of their valiant fight and hard struggle. Their white bandages, stained with red, covered wounds of honor; the drops of blood falling through the stretchers seemed to hallow the ground. They impressed us with an inexpressible dignity—we could not help sighing with reverence and gratitude.

Just at this moment, the aide-de-camp who had gone forward to receive instructions came back and reported that Nanshan had fallen, and that all the reserves were to lodge in the neighborhood of Chungchia-tun to await further orders. What a disappointment! From the commander down to the grooms all felt dispirited and disheartened—stroked their hard-strained arms and stamped on the ground with regret. It is true, this early fall of Nanshan, which the enemy had considered the key to Port Arthur, would be a great advantage to our future plan of campaign. We ought to have rejoiced over the news, and we did of course rejoice; but at the same time you cannot blame us for being thus disappointed when you think how we had hurried and pressed on from the point of our landing, without stopping to recover our breath, only to learn at our destination that the object of our efforts had been attained by other people.

Only one more hill in front of us! Beyond it were blood-streams and corpse-hills. When we reached this spot the deafening cannon roar suddenly ceased, the mountains and valleys recovered their ancient silence. The only thing we saw was the continuous sending back of the wounded. Whenever we met them, we comforted them and thanked them for their work. We had a rest at the bottom of the hill, where a groom, who had been in the battle, recounted to us the story with great pride. Shaking his head and flourishing his arms, he talked like a professional story-teller—his story was a great excitement for us then. He showed us a water bottle that had belonged to a Russian soldier. Altogether he talked as if he had vanquished the enemy all by himself. We who had not yet loaded our guns, we who had not yet unsheathed our swords, felt shamefaced and crestfallen; even this non-combatant groom seemed like a hero to us. We praised him, and piled question after question on him, and eagerly devoured his triumphant accounts.

We, all the reserves under the direct command of General Oku, Commander-in-chief of the Second Army, were ordered to spend the night at Chungchia-tun. We had to go back a ri and a half over the same road to that place. How lacking in spirit was that backward march! Both men and horses hung their heads and walked on dejectedly. The yellow dust rising from the ground made us look like dumplings covered with yellow bean-flour. In our forced march by day and night, we had thought only of Nanshan and had not felt any pain in our legs. Everything was reversed on our return! Even in a manœuvre in time of peace, the sound of cannon and rifles makes us forget the pain in our feet and the exhaustion of our bodies, changes our walking into running, and incites us to assault the enemy with a frantic zeal; but once we begin to retrace our steps, our feet grow heavy at once, every rut and every pebble tries our temper, and we are entirely without energy or spirit. This may come from the Japanese characteristic that thinks only of going forward and not at all of retreating. The Russian soldiers are masterly in retreat, whilst the Japanese are very unskilled in it. But once they begin to advance, the Japanese are never defeated by the Russians. We have inherited a temperament which knows no retreating even before sure death, and that inheritance has been made stronger by discipline. Our constant victory over the fierce enemy must largely be due to this characteristic of ours.

At last we reached Chungchia-tun. It was a desolate village with a small stream running through it. The moon looked dismal that night and the stars were few. Nature seemed to sympathize with the disappointed, worn-out men and officers, sleeping on millet straw and mourning over those who had died in the battle of that day. Here and there we saw men unable to go to sleep till late at night—their hearts must have been full of new emotions. The cuckoo[32] hurrying through the sky, with one brief note or two—a few bars of a biwa-song[33] crooned by a sleepless man—Ah, what a lonesome, touching evening it was!

Thus I failed to take part in the battle of Nanshan, and I have no right to recount the story of that severe struggle, although the title of this chapter may suggest a full recital. The only thing I can do is to tell you in the next chapter what I saw on the scene of the battle immediately after its actual occurrence. This will be followed up later by my own story of the siege of Port Arthur. Before concluding this chapter, however, I wish to introduce a brave soldier to my readers.

When we were starting from Wangchia-tun we dispatched a bicycle orderly, Buichi Kusunoki by name, to our place of landing, Yenta-ao, to establish communication between ourselves and those who landed after we did. This man was known to be specially fitted to fulfill such a duty; his perseverance and undaunted courage had always made him successful. Consequently, when we started from Japan, he was singled out from his company as an orderly attached to the headquarters of our regiment. So, naturally, this first important duty after our landing devolved upon Kusunoki. Late in the afternoon, he started for Yenta-ao on his machine. We had come to Wangchia-tun through pathless plains—he could not expect to go back to Yenta-ao without great difficulty. In a strange land, not knowing anything of the place or the language, he went on with the pole-star as his only guide. His duty was very important. If he had reached his destination even one hour later, much time would have been lost in the movement of the other detachments. Of course he did not know that Nanshan was to fall without our help. He only knew that our whole regiment of reserves must be near Nanshan, so that we could join the battle-line at a moment’s notice. This Kusunoki was the sole means of communication by which the two separate parts of our regiment could be brought together. On starting, he was carefully told of the tremendous responsibility he was to undertake. But eight or nine ri’s journey in the pathless wilderness of Liaotung in pitch darkness was not an easy task. His bicycle, instead of being a help, was a burden to him; he had to carry it on his back and run. He went astray and could not find the right place all night. Toward daybreak he hoped to be able to find out where he was, but all in vain! With nothing to eat or drink, he struggled on without knowing whither he was going, but praying that he might chance to reach the right place. With his mind in a great hurry, he crept on all fours, resting every now and then, for his legs would carry him no further with his machine on his back. Fortunately, however, he came across a sentinel, who showed him the right way and gave him something to eat. He was thus enabled to accomplish his object in time,—though delayed. The orderly, and the aide-de-camp as well, bears a responsibility much greater than that of an ordinary soldier. The commander must rely upon them if he would move tens of thousands of men as easily as he moves his own fingers. The success or failure of a whole army often depends upon the efficiency of the aide-de-camp. Therefore he must possess the four important qualities of courage, perseverance, judgment, and prompt decision. And this Buichi Kusunoki was a true aide-de-camp, with bravery and faithfulness worthy of our profound respect.

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.

One of the most pitiful of sights is, perhaps, the dead or wounded war-horses. They had crossed the seas to run and gallop in a strange land among flying bullets and the roar of cannon. They seemed to think that this was the time to return their masters’ kindness in keeping them comfortable so long. With their masters on their backs they would run about so cheerfully and gallantly on the battle-field! The pack-horses also seemed proud and anxious to show their long-practiced ability in bearing heavy burdens or drawing heavy carts, without complaining of their untold sufferings. Their usefulness in war is beyond description. The successful issue of a battle is due first to the efforts of the brave men and officers, but we must not forget what we owe to the help of our faithful animals. And yet they are so modest of their merits; are contented with coarse fodder and muddy water; do not grumble at continual exposure to rain and snow, and think their master’s caress the best comfort they can have. Their manner of performing their important duties is almost equal to that of soldiers. But they are speechless; they cannot tell of wound or pain. Sometimes they cannot get medicine, or even a comforting pat. They writhe in agony and die unnoticed, with a sad neigh of farewell. Their bodies are not buried, but are left in the field for wolves and crows to feed upon, their big strong bones to be bleached in the wild storms of the wilderness. These loyal horses also are heroes who die a horrible death in the performance of duty; their memory ought to be held in respect and gratitude. My teacher, the Rev. Kwatsurin Nakabayashi,[34] accompanied our army during the war as a volunteer nurse. While taking care of the wounded at the front, he collected fragments of shells to use in erecting an image of Bato-Kwanon[35] to comfort the spirits of the horses that died in the war. This plan of his has already been carried out. Another Buddhist by the name of Doami has been urging an International Red Cross Treaty for horses such as there is now for men. Without such a provision he says we cannot claim to be true to the principles of humanity. Our talk of love and kindness to animals will be an empty sound. He is said to be agitating the introduction of such a proposition at the next Hague Conference. Of course there are veterinary surgeons in the army, but no one can expect them to be able to bestow all necessary care on the unfortunate animals. To supply this deficiency and protect animals as best we can, a Red Cross for horses is a proposal worthy of serious attention.

I climbed Nanshan to inspect the arrangements of the enemy’s position there. Everything was almost ideal in their plan of defense, everything quite worthy of a great military power. Besides the wire-entanglements, pitfalls, ground-mines, strong lines of trenches went round and round the mountain, embrasure holes for machine guns were seen everywhere, a large number of heavy guns thrust out their muzzles from many a fort. As the place was fortified in a semi-permanent style, there were barracks and storehouses, and the latter were filled with all kinds of winter clothing. There was a railway and also a battery. When I entered a building used as the headquarters of the commander, I was astonished to find how luxuriously and comfortably he had lived there. His rooms were beautifully furnished, hardly reminding one of camp life. What was most curious, night garments and toilet articles of a feminine nature as well as children’s clothes were scattered here and there.

From this spot I looked through field-glasses far to the eastern seacoast, where were countless men and horses lying on the beach washed by the gray waves. They were the remains of the Cavalry Brigade of the enemy, who had been stationed about Laohu-shan to defend the right flank of their lines. Our Fourth Division surprised them from behind, from the west coast; they had no way of retreat, were driven into the sea, and thus were almost all drowned. This defeat was self-inflicted, in so far as they had relied too much upon the strength of their position and thus lost the opportunity for a timely retreat.

Half-way up the mountain we saw a damaged search-light and a pile of rockets. These were the things that often impeded our attempts at coming near the enemy under cover of night. The search-light had been damaged by our men in revenge after the occupation of the place, because they had been so severely harassed by the machine.

The scene before my eyes filled my heart with grief and sorrow. Hour after hour the wooden posts to mark the burial-places of the dead increased in number. On my trip of observation from Nanshan to Chin-chou I noticed a mound of loose earth, with a bamboo stick planted on it. I stepped on the mound to see what it was. I was shocked to discover a dead Russian underneath. It was my first experience of stepping on a corpse, and I cannot forget the horror I felt. At that time I had not yet tasted a fight and therefore could not help shuddering at its tragic and sinful effects. It is almost curious to think of it now, for the oftener flying bullets are encountered the less sensitive we become to the horrors of war. What is shocking and sickening becomes a matter of indifference. Familiarity takes off the edge of sensibility. If we should continue to be so shocked and disgusted we could not survive the strain.

For sixteen hours our army persevered, braved the cross-firing of the enemy, and finally captured Nanshan after several assaults with a large sacrifice of precious lives. We thus acquired the key to the whole peninsula of Chin-chou, cut off the communication of the enemy, were enabled to begin the clearing of Talien Bay unmolested, and also to make all necessary preparations for the general attack on Port Arthur. Our victory at Nanshan was a record-breaking event in the annals of warfare. And this signal success was won, not through the power of powder and gun, but primarily through the courage and perseverance of our men. During the battle, when the third assault failed of success, the commander, General Oku, cried in a voice of thunder, “What sort of a thing is Yamato-damashi?” Whereupon the whole army gained fresh strength, drew one long breath, and took the place by storm. Sir Claude MacDonald said that the secret of Japan’s unbroken record of success in this war was in the “men behind the guns.” This battle of Nanshan was a demonstration of their quality.

Ch. VIII.

DIGGING AND SCOUTING

IT was on the 28th of May that we went to Changchia-tun from Yenchia-tun to take the place of the defense corps of the Third Division. After Nanshan our division was separated from the Second Army under Oku, and attached to the newly organized Third Army for the siege of Port Arthur. It was not a long march from Yenchia-tun to Changchia-tun, but whenever I think about marching I cannot help remembering this particular occasion. Round about Port Arthur the ground is covered with rocks and pebbles; all the other places on the peninsula are covered with earth like rice bran or ashes, which fills the mouth, eyes, and nose. Swift winds stirred up clouds of dust, filling the throat and threatening to swallow the long snake-like line of marching men. Often we could not see an inch ahead and our line of men was in danger of disconnection. Even the cooked rice in our lunch boxes was filled with the dust. On other occasions we had marched ten or twenty ri’s without resting day or night, had covered sometimes a distance of more than ten ri’s on the double-quick, had made a forced march without a drop of drinking water, or had marched in pitch darkness; but all our previous experiences of this kind were nothing compared with the hardships of this dust-covered march. If this is the price for the honor of taking part in a real war, we have certainly paid it. Toil and hardship of course we were ready for, but while our minds were prepared for bayonets and bullets, at first we felt it a torture to fight with Nature herself, to cross the wilderness, climb the mountains, fight with rain and wind, with heat and cold, and sleep on the beds of grass. But very soon we began to philosophize, and to think that this was also an important part of our warfare, and this idea made us take kindly to the fight with the elements and with Nature. Eventually we learned to enjoy sleeping in the spacious mansion of millet fields, or in rock-built castles, viewing the moon and listening in our beds to the singing of insects.

Marching without a halt, we reached Changchia-tun and took the place of the Third Division men. When we saw these men for the first time, we felt ashamed of our own inexperience and wished to sneak out of their sight. They seemed to us crowned with glory for their great achievement at Nanshan, and we felt like country people who had missed the train, looking at the trail of smoke with mouths wide open in disappointment. We envied them, picturing to ourselves their clothes torn and bloodstained and their skins covered with fresh wounds of honor. We looked up to them with love and reverence, admiring their dust-covered caps and bloodstained gaiters. Their very countenances, their very demeanor, seemed to recount eloquently their glorious exploits.

The right centre of our line of defense was an eminence facing the enemy’s front. But our whole line covered a distance of twenty-five kilometres from Antsu-shan at one end to Taitzu-shan at the other, with the pass of Mantutsu in the middle. Just north of this pass is the village of Lichia-tun, and our own battalion occupied a line extending from this village at its right to the village of Yuchia-tun the other side of the river, beyond which lay a range of hills. There we raised strong works, diligently sought our enemy, and busily engaged ourselves in preparations for defense and attack. In the meantime General Nogi and his staff landed at Yenta-ao and reached Peh-Paotsu-yai, a village about three ri’s to the northwest of Dalny. With his arrival the organization of the Third Army was completed. How eagerly, then, did we wait for the first chance of fighting!

The enemy, though defeated at Nanshan, had of course been reluctant to give up Dalny; but they had been obliged to run for their lives, and they and their wives and children escaped toward the bottom of the bag, that is, Port Arthur, burning down the village of Sanshihli-pu on their way thither. They had fortified a strong line, connecting the hills, Pantu, Lwanni-chiao, Waitu, Shwangting, etc. The distance between the Russian and Japanese lines was between three and five thousand metres. This much of the enemy’s condition and position we ascertained through the hard work of scouts and scouting parties.

As soon as we were stationed on the line of defense, we began on the very first day to work with pickaxes and shovels. A special spot was assigned to each cavalry battalion and infantry company, and each group of men, in its own place, hurried day and night, digging trenches for skirmishers. The officers acted as “bosses,” the non-commissioned officers as foremen, and the men themselves as coolies,—all were engaged in digging earth. All the while scouts, both officers and non-commissioned officers, were being dispatched to find out the enemy’s movements. No alarm had come yet; the engineering work made daily progress. The trenches for skirmishers and bomb-proofs for the cavalry, forming the first line of defense, grew steadily, their breastworks strengthened by sand-bags the sacking for which had been brought from Dalny. A simple kind of wire-entanglement was also put up, a good road was made, short cuts connecting different bodies of men were laid out like cobwebs; thus our defenses assumed almost a half-permanent character. The soldiers either utilized village dwellings, or pitched tents in the yards or under the trees. When all these necessary preparations were fairly complete, more scouts and scouting parties began to go off to find out the movements and whereabouts of the enemy.

At a military review or manœuvres in time of peace, the men look gay and comfortable, but on the real battle-field they have to try a true life-and-death match with the enemy. In the readiness and morale of the men while on the outposts lies the outcome of the actual encounter. Therefore men on the line of defense cannot sleep at ease at night, or kindle fires to warm themselves. The night is the time when they must be most vigilant and wide-awake. The patrols on the picket line and the scouts far in front must try to take in everything. However tired they may be from their day’s work, at night they must not allow even a singing insect or a flying bird to pass unnoticed. Holding their breath and keeping their heads cool, they must use their sight and hearing for the whole army behind them, with the utmost vigilance. When people talk of war, they usually forget the toil and responsibility of the men on the picket line, they talk only of their behavior on the field of battle. Because this duty was neglected, three regiments of the English army in the War of Independence, 1777, were annihilated by the Americans through the fault of one single sentinel.

“Halt! Halt! Who goes there?”

The sentinel’s cry adds to the loneliness of an anxious night. One or two shots suddenly sound through the silent darkness; it is probable that the enemy’s pickets have been discovered. Quiet prevails once more; the night is far advanced. A bank of dark clouds starts from the north, spreads quickly and covers the whole sky with an inky color, and the rain begins to fall drop by drop. This experience on the picket line, keeping a sharp eye on the enemy all the time, continued for about thirty days.

By the time our line of defense was in proper order, the enemy began to show their heads. Every night there was the report of rifles near our line of patrols.

“Captain, five or six of the enemy’s infantry scouts appeared, and then suddenly disappeared, in a valley five or six hundred metres ahead.” Such a report was repeated over and over again in the course of one day and night. Soon we began to try various contrivances to capture the enemy’s scouts on our line of patrol. One of them was this: about twenty ken[36] away from our line a piece of rope was stretched, to that rope another piece was fastened, one end of it leading to the spot where our patrol was standing. The idea was that if the enemy walked against the first rope the second would communicate the vibration to the patrol man. Once when the signal came, and the men hurried to capture the enemy, no human being was in sight, but a large black dog stood barking and snarling at them.

Ch. IX.

THE FIRST CAPTIVES

OUR scouts were gradually increased in number; not only from the troops on the first line, but also from the reserves at the rear, scouts were dispatched one after another. Almost always they were successful. They either came across a small body of the enemy and dispersed them, or else they came back with the report of a place where a larger force was stationed. Such a success was always welcome to the commander of the brigade or of the regiment. Because we had not yet encountered the enemy, we were all very anxious to be sent out as scouts, in order to have a chance of trying our hand on the foe.

It was on the 20th of June, if I remember correctly, that one of our officers, Lieutenant Toki, started out, with half a company of men under him, to reconnoitre the enemy about Lwanni-chiao, but did not come across any Russians. He left a small detachment as a rear-guard and started back. Unexpectedly two Russian scouts appeared between his men and this rear-guard. They were surrounded, but offered stubborn resistance with bayonets and would not surrender. They were fired at, and fell, though still alive. They were our first captives and we were anxious to question them. They were placed on straw mat stretchers made on the spot to suit the occasion, and carried in triumph to the side of a brook at a little distance from the headquarters of our regiment. This was our first bag of captives. The men swarmed around the poor Russians, eager to enjoy the first sight of prisoners-of-war. Presently came the aide-de-camp of the brigade and an interpreter. The two captives were put in different places and examined separately. This was according to the recognized rule of separate cross-questioning, so that the real truth may be inferred through comparison and synthesis of the different assertions of different prisoners. In examining them, the first questions put are, what army, division, etc., do they belong to, who are their high commanders, where did they stay the previous night, how is the morale of their army, etc. Even when we have no time to go through all these questions, we must find out what they belong to, in order to ascertain the disposition of the enemy’s forces. If, for instance, they say they belong to the First Regiment of Infantry sharpshooters, we can infer from that statement who the commander is and what is his probable plan of campaign.

Our surgeons gave the captives proper medical care and comforted them, saying: “Depend upon it, we shall take good care of you. Be at your ease and answer truthfully whatever is asked of you.”

The surgeons told us that both Russians had been shot through the chest and would not live an hour longer, and therefore that it was advisable to put only a few important questions while they retained consciousness. One of the examiners said: “Of what regiment and of what place are you?”

The poor captive answered, gaspingly: “The Twenty-sixth Regiment of Infantry sharpshooters.” “Who is the commander of your division?” “Don’t know.” The interpreter expostulated. “You can’t say you don’t know. You ought to know the name of your own commander.”

The captive showed his sincerity in his countenance; probably he meant what he said. He was breathing with difficulty, and blood was running out of his mouth.

“Please give me a drink of water.”

I was standing nearest to him and obtained a glass of spring water. When I gave him to drink he would not even look at it.

“There is boiled water in my bottle; give me that.”

I did as was requested. I do not know whether this Russian, even in his last moments, disdained to receive a drink from the enemy, but I was struck with his carefulness in observing the rules of hygiene and not drinking unboiled water. Because of this strength of character, he had bravely fought with our scouting party until he was struck down. But he was not the only Russian soldier who did not know the name of his commanding general. Afterwards when I had chances of cross-questioning a large number of captives, I found out that the majority of them were equally ignorant. Moreover, they did not know for what or for whom they were fighting. Nine men out of ten would say that they had been driven to the field without knowing why or wherefore.

No more time was allowed for questioning this captive. He became whiter and whiter, breathed with more and more difficulty; his end was fast approaching. The surgeon said: “Do you suffer? Have you anything to say?”

At these kind words he raised his head a little and said, with tears: “I have left my wife and one child in my country; please let them know how I died.”

He breathed his last soon afterward. This man sacrificed his life without knowing what for. To be driven to the far-away East, to be captured by the enemy, and die thinking of his wife and child! He brought tears of sympathy to our eyes. He was honorably buried under a cross, and Chaplain Toyama offered Buddhist prayers.

The other captive was different in his attitude and manners, and we were far from pitying him. Of course we had no personal enmity toward him, or toward any one of the Russian fighters, and therefore we were quite ready to pity those worthy of pity, to love those worthy of love. But what do you think we found in this particular one?

When the interpreter asked the man, “Where is your regiment stationed now?” his answer was something like this: “Shut up! I don’t know. The Japanese are cruel; they are merciless to those who surrender. Give me some soup to drink; give me some tobacco.”

This rude remark and behavior came, not from true courage, that does not fear the enemy, but from sheer insolence. Other men whom we captured later were worthy of a similar description.

Although the Russians had been badly defeated at Nanshan, they did not yet know what was the real ability of the Japanese army; and relying upon the so-called invincible strength of Port Arthur behind them, they made light of their small-statured enemy. They were also like the frogs in the well,[37] and did not know anything of our great victory of Chinlien-chêng and that the Russians had been entirely expelled from Korea. Even when they were told of these facts, they would not believe them. Boasting of the mere size of their country and army, when were the Russians to awake from their deluding dreams?

Day and night we tried hard to find out the enemy’s whereabouts. One time a large reconnoitring detachment was sent out, when they came across a body of Russian cavalry, many of whom were killed and their horses captured by our men. The enemy also was watching us incessantly, and away on the top of Waitu-shan a corps of observation equipped with telescopes was seen constantly giving signals with black flags. Sometimes they would send out scouts dressed as Chinese natives to spy our advance lines. At first we were deceived by their appearance and some of our patrols were killed in an unguarded moment. Then we learned to be more careful and did not allow even the real Chinese to cross our line. Upon one occasion the mayor of the village in front of us asked for permission to come within the Japanese line, on the ground that they were greatly inconvenienced by not being allowed to cross it. After that the headquarters of the brigade appointed a special committee to investigate into individual cases, and only those Chinese who had families or relatives living inside the line were allowed to come over. Of course the Chinese would do almost anything for money. There were many who had been bribed by the Russians to become spies. They caused us a great deal of damage in spite of every possible precaution.

Thus we were kept busy with necessary preparations for an actual engagement, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. For strategic reasons, we did not take an offensive attitude for some time, leaving everything to the choice of the enemy, with the mere precaution against a surprise by the Russians. Meanwhile the enemy’s navy appeared near Hsiaoping-tao and Hehshih-chiao and tried to find out our place of encampment by firing at us at random. At last the time came for us to begin active operations. On the 26th of June, the besieging army commenced hostilities and our regiment participated in the battle of Waitu-shan and Kenzan.

Ch. X.

OUR FIRST BATTLE AT WAITU-SHAN

FOR about thirty days we had waited for a good opportunity, fortifying ourselves strongly, and engaged in constant skirmishes with the enemy. There was, however, one thing that we could not permit, and that was that the enemy was able to look down into our camp from various high points in their position. They occupied Waitu-shan, 372 metres in height, Shuangting-shan, a double-peaked mountain, of 352 metres, and a nameless mountain, which we afterward christened Kenzan, or Sword Mountain, higher and steeper than the first two. These mountains were secure from our attack, and from these eminences the enemy could spy us very well and comfortably. They set up fine telescopes on these places and took in what we were doing in our camp, in the Bay of Talien, and in Dalny. This was a great disadvantage to us. The longer they occupied those heights, the longer our necessary preparations at the rear must be delayed and the right opportunity to advance and strike might be lost. So it was an urgent necessity to take these places of vantage, and also to take Hsiaoping-tao in order to prevent the enemy’s warships from threatening our defenses of Talien Bay. This was the reason for our first battle, an attack on Waitu-shan.

This was not a severe battle; its object was simply to drive away the enemy occupying these heights. Because of the natural strength of the place, the Russians had not done much to protect or fortify it, and it was comparatively easy for us to attack. But this was the first fight for us, and we fought it with special fervor and determination.

Late in the night of the 25th, the last day of our defensive attitude, when the watch-fires of the camps were going out, and the occasional braying of donkeys added to the solitude of the hour, a secret order was brought to us to begin at once to prepare for fighting. Why was this message given at midnight? Because of fear of the natives. It had been arranged that our march and attack should begin on the 24th, but when we began to make preparations for starting, we soon found reason to suspect the natives of having informed the enemy of our movements and intentions. So we stopped for that day, and daybreak of the 26th was assigned for the attack, so that we could begin our march before the natives knew anything of it. That night I could hardly sleep for excitement; I tossed and fretted in bed, pictured to myself the battle of the morrow, or talked nonsense with the comrade in the nearest bed. I saw the occasional flickering of small fires in the dark and knew that not a few were awake, smoking and cogitating.

Very soon the whole atmosphere of the camp was filled with quiet activity; officers and men jumped out of bed and began to fold tents and overcoats as noiselessly as possible. Putting on our creaking knapsacks with the utmost caution, we crept with stealthy tread across the grass, and gathering at one spot stacked our rifles. The sky was inky black with summer clouds; the bayonets and the stars on our caps were the only things that glittered in the dark. Though their eyes were dull and sleepy, all were eager and determined in spirit.

“Have you left nothing behind? Are all the fires out?”

All at once the whole line became silent and began to move on at the command “March silently.” We had to keep very still until we were fairly out of the village, so that when the Chinese got up in the morning they would be surprised at our absence. This was the time for us to put in practice the quiet march, in which we had had much previous training. Even a month’s stay in the place had endeared to us, to some extent, the rivers and hills; the village had come to seem a sort of second home. How could we be indifferent to the tree that had given us shelter and to the stream that had given us drink? Among the villagers there was an old man by the name of Chodenshin, a descendant of a refugee of the Ming dynasty. He had helped us very faithfully, drawing water in the morning, and kindling fires in the evening. This good man discovered that we were going, and worked all the night through to help us. When we began the march, he came to the end of the village to see us off. Of course we could not forget such a man, and every now and then we used to talk about his faithful services.

The morning mist enshrouded the sky and the sun had not yet risen. The Sun Flag was at the head of our long line of march. Far away toward the right flank several shots were heard. Had the battle really begun?

At this moment both the right and left columns of our army began action, the right one to attack the height to the southwest of the village of Pantu, and the left to attack the enemy’s entrenchments on the heights to the east of the village of Lwanni-chiao, that is, from the 368-metre hill (Kenzan) on the north, along the ridge to Shuangting-shan in the south.

Our—that is, the middle—division of the left column was assigned to attack Waitu-shan. We marched quietly, binding the horses’ tongues, furling our flag, and trailing our arms. When we came close to the place, the enemy poured a fierce volley on us from the top of the hill and offered stubborn resistance. Brave, worthy foe! We responded with a brisk fire and sent showers of bullets and shells. They were on an eminence and we at the foot of the hill; their shots fell like rain on our heads and raised dust at our feet. At last the curtain of our first act was raised. This was our first chance to compare our strength with theirs. The coming and going of bullets and shells became fiercer and fiercer as time went on. The exploding gas of the smokeless powder filled the whole field with a vile smell. The sound of the opening and shutting of the breech-blocks of the guns, the sound of empty cartridges jumping out, the moaning of the bullets, the groaning of the shells, wounding as they fell, how stirring, how sublime! The cry “Forward! Forward!” rises on every side. Steep hills and sword-like rocks are braved and climbed at a quick, eager pace; the cartridges rattle in their cases; the sword jumps; the heart dances. March and shoot, shoot and march! The enemy’s shot rain hard; our bullets fly windward. The battle has become fierce.

Until we have pierced the body of the foe with our shot, we must continue to harass them with our fire. The bayonet is the finishing touch; the guns must play a large part in a battle. So, therefore, we must be very careful in shooting. When the fighting once begins, we begin to dance from the top of the head to the tip of the toe, we lose ourselves in excitement, but that does not do. It is very difficult to act coolly, but the aiming and the pulling of the trigger must be done deliberately, however noisy the place may be, however bloody the scene. This is the secret determining who shall be the victor.

“Pull the trigger as carefully and gently
As the frost falls in the cold night,”

is the poem teaching the secret. Such a cool, deliberate shot is sure to hit the mark. The enemy fall one after another. Then follows the final assault (tokkwan), then the triumphal tune is sung, the Kimi ga yo[38] is played, and Banzai to the Emperor is shouted. This is the natural order of events.

The spirit of the men on the firing line improved steadily; the battle-field became more and more active. The number of the wounded increased moment after moment. Cries of “A-a!” sounded from every side, as the bullets found their mark and men fell to earth unconscious.

The final opportunity was fast coming toward us; the enemy began to waver. One foot forward, another foot backward, they were in a half-hearted condition. ‘T is time for “Tokkan! Tokkan!”[39] the time for a shout like the beating on a broken bell and for a dash at the foe. Lo! a fierce rain of rifle-shot falls, followed by the shouting of a hundred thunders; mountains and valleys shake; heaven and earth quake. Captain Murakami, commander of the company, shouting tremendously and brandishing his long sword, rushes forward. All the soldiers follow his example and pierce the enemy’s line, shouting, screaming, dancing, and jumping. This done, the Russians turn their backs on us and run for their lives, leaving behind arms, powder, caps, etc. How cleverly and quickly they scamper away! That at least deserves our praise.

Waitu-shan became ours once for all. We did not fight a very hard fight, but this our first success was like a stirrup cup. “Medetashi![40] medetashi!” We raised our hearty Banzai to the morning sky at eight o’clock on the 26th of June.

Ch. XI.

THE OCCUPATION OF KENZAN

WAITU-SHAN being taken with ease, the emboldened thousands of our soldiers now began to chase the fleeing enemy along the long, narrow path leading from Ling-shui-ho-tzu to the 368-metre hill, that is, Kenzan. The object of this march was to attack the Russians occupying Kenzan, and our men were more eager and enthusiastic than ever, and fully expected to take this hill with one single stroke.

Kenzan is a very steep, rocky, rugged peak, and the path on our side was particularly steep and rugged, so much so that one man on the path could prevent thousands of men from either climbing or descending. This hill had had no name originally, but the Russians themselves christened it Quin Hill. After the place was taken, General Nogi gave it the name of Kenzan, “Sword Hill,” after the famous steep hill Tsurugi[41]-ga-miné of Shikoku, near our home barracks, in order to perpetuate the fame of the regiment that took this steep place. We did not know at first how large a Russian force was stationed there. We had only ascertained that there were some infantry and more than ten guns for its defense.

Our regiment, as the reserve force, went round the foot of Waitozan and stopped in the cultivated fields near the seashore. At this time it was burning hot in Liaotung; moreover, there was no stream of water to moisten our mouths, no trees or bushes beyond the village to give us shade. Our position was even without grass, and we were exposed to the red-hot-poker-like rays of the sun, which seemed to pierce through our caps and melt our heads. We, however, consoled ourselves with the idea that this horrible fire-torture would not last long, and that soon we should have a chance of real fighting. But we remained in the same position from 9 a.m. till 3 p.m., all the hottest hours of the day. Far away to the left was visible the rippling water of the eastern sea—how we longed for a cold bath before going forward to die on the battle-field! We could not help our mouths watering at the distant sight of the sea!

After a while, a Russian gunboat appeared near Hsiaoping-tao, an island to our left, and began to fire at our reserve force. Many circles of smoke were scattered high in the air, the air itself made a whirling sound, and the shot fell on our position with a tremendous noise. Shot after shot, sound after sound! Some would hit rocks, emit sparks, spread smoke around, and the rock itself would fly in pieces. Seen from a safe distance, it is a heart-stirring sight, but we would not have welcomed a real hit. Nearly all this shot came very near us, but fortunately none of us was wounded. Soon we began to hear the booming of guns and cannon in the direction of Kenzan; and we knew the attack had begun. We were anxiously longing to march and join the battle.

How eagerly we welcomed the order, “Forward, march!” As soon as it was heard, all the men jumped up with a spring and turned their eyes to the colonel’s face. The commander’s brave bearing is always looked up to by his men as their pattern. Especially in a critical moment, when the issue of the day is to be settled, his undaunted attitude and steady gaze will alone inspire his men with the courage and energy which lead them to victory.

Now we were to march. Our heavy knapsacks would have hindered our activity. The men hurried to put about a day’s ration into a long sack to be fastened to the back, and fixed their overcoats to their shoulders. I pulled out two or three cigarettes from a package and started at once. Without any special order from anybody, our pace became faster and faster—we marched along a long road toward the place where the roar of cannon and rifles was rising. We came nearer and nearer to the noise of the battle-line. When we reached the actual spot, how our hearts leaped!

The steep hill occupied by the enemy rose in front of us almost perpendicularly. Our first line was incessantly exchanging fire with the Russians. As the fighting became harder and harder, the number of the wounded increased in proportion; they were carried to the rear in quick succession. Bloodstained men on stretchers, wounded soldiers walking with difficulty, supporting themselves on rifles—the sight of these unfortunate ones made us fresh men the more eager to avenge them.

The struggle became still fiercer. Our artillery tried hard to silence the enemy’s guns; our infantry were clambering up the steep height one after the other—they would stop and shoot, then climb a little and stop again. The whole sky was covered with gray clouds—white and black smoke rose in volumes; shells fell on the ground like a hail-storm. After a short time, our superior artillery effectively silenced three or four of the enemy’s guns. Our infantry came quite close to the enemy, when two mines exploded before them. Our men were enveloped in black smoke and clouds of dust—we feared great damage was done. Strange to tell, however, not one of our men had fallen when the smoke-cloud cleared away. The enemy had wasted a large quantity of precious powder with the mere result of raising a dust!

The Russians tried to hinder our pressing on, not only by these exploding mines, but also by repeated volleys from the mountain-top. This latter scheme was carried out so incessantly that we could hardly turn our faces toward the enemy or raise our heads comfortably. On and on, however, we marched without fear or hesitancy. A small company of men at the head of the line would clamber up the rocks and precipices, ready for annihilation; encouraged by their example, larger forces would break in upon the enemy like a flood. Stepping on mine-openings and braving rifle and cannon fire coming from front and side, the extreme danger and difficulty of their attack was beyond description. The enemy resisted desperately; this Heaven-protected steep Kenzan was too important for them to give up.

Suddenly a tremendous shout arose throughout our whole line; all the officers, with drawn swords and bloodshot eyes, rushed into the enemy’s forts, shouting and yelling and encouraging their men to follow. A hell-like struggle ensued, in which bayonet clashed against bayonet, fierce shooting was answered by fierce shooting, shouts and yells were mingled with the groans of the wounded and dying. The battle soon became ours, for, in spite of their desperate resistance, the enemy took to their heels, leaving behind them many mementos of their defeat. Banzai was shouted two or three times; joy and congratulation resounded on the heights of Kenzan, which was now virtually ours. The Flag of the Rising Sun was hoisted high at the top of the hill. This stronghold once in our hands, shall we ever give it back to the enemy?

Ch. XII.

COUNTER-ATTACKS ON KENZAN

KENZAN once in our hands, Shuangting-shan and its vicinity soon became ours. Through the smoke our colors were seen flying over the forces now occupying these places, whose thunder-like triumphal shouts echoed above the winds. This Shuangting-shan was as important as Kenzan—neither position must remain in the hands of the enemy. But Shuangting-shan was not strongly fortified and the Russians could not hold it long against us. It was an easy prey for us. “When one wild goose is frightened, the whole line of wild geese goes into disorder; when one company wavers, the whole army is defeated,” so says the old expression. When the Russians lost Kenzan, which they had relied upon so much, Shuangting-shan fell like a dead leaf, and Hsiaoping-tao also became ours. This island is to the left of the foot of Shuangting-shan and, as I have already told you, Russian ships had appeared in that neighborhood and attacked us on the flank; this attempt at piercing our side with a sharp spear was very effective. These ships were driven back into Port Arthur more than once by our fleet; but as soon as they found a chance, they would come back and bombard our flank. During the battle of the 26th, three or four gunboats of the enemy were in that vicinity; they greatly hindered our attacks on Kenzan and Shuangting-shan. So the left wing of our left column was ordered to take the island, and it soon fell into our hands. Thus the whole of the first line of the enemy’s defense about Port Arthur came entirely under our flag.

Every detachment of our army was successful in its attack of the 26th, and this gave us an enormous advantage for the future development of our plan of campaign. We were now in a position to look down upon the enemy’s movements, from those same heights whence they once had espied our doings. It is, therefore, no wonder that the Russians tried to recover this vantage ground. It is said that General Stoessel ordered his whole army to recover, at whatever cost, this Kenzan, which, he said, was indispensable for the defense of Port Arthur. This was quite natural for them. But we Japanese had determined not to give up the place to the enemy, whatever counter-attack, whatever stratagem, might be brought to bear. If they were ready for a great sacrifice, we were equally willing to accept the sacrifice. Brave Russians, come and attack us twice or thrice, if you are anxious to have regrets afterward! What they did was “to keep the tiger off the front gate and not to know that the wolf was already at the back door.”

The long, summer-day’s sun was going down, a dismal gray light enveloped heaven and earth; after the battle warm, unpleasant winds were sweeping over bloodstained grass, and the din of war of a short time before was followed by an awful silence, except for the scattered reports of rifles, with thin, dull, spiritless sound. This was the repulsed enemy’s random shooting to give vent to their anger and regret—it was quite an amusement for us. All of a sudden, dark clouds were vomited by mountain peaks, the whole sky became black in a moment, lightning and thunder were followed by bullet-like drops of rain; nature seemed to repeat the same desperate, bloody scene that we had presented a short while before. This battle of the elements was an additional hardship for our men,—they had not even trees for shelter,—all looked like rats drenched in water! We spent the night on this mountain in the rain, listening to the neighing of our horses at its foot.