THE SOLDIER AND HIS WAR SONGS.
The tidal wave of war that swept us over the Yalu left us stranded on
a hill side in Manchuria. Upon the slope of the hill was outspread a
forest of green boughs, in the shade of which we pitched our tents
and awaited the next move in the big game. It was a sequestered nook,
where the moist earth feeds a plenteous crop of weeds and clothes with
verdure the tiny mounds under which generations of Manchus sleep the
sleep that knows not waking. Among the silent memorials of the dead
we made bowers of pine branch and oak leaf, and wreathed them with
snowy hawthorn and scented lilac. At dewy dawn we woke to the song of
thrush and call of cuckoo, and at nightfall we were lulled to sleep by
the breath of the wind sighing through the woods like the murmur of
the lonely sea. From our cool covert we looked upon a valley embraced
by copse-clad hills and a mountain that towers like a bastion above
the plain. Feng-hoang--“Phœnix”--is the name of the mountain and fits
it well, for this sheer rock with furrowed face and razor crest was
born of fire. Along the valley winds the river--a strand of blue in a
web of brown and gold. It was a scene of vernal loveliness. When the
sun flooded valley and hill with gold, the brown earth turned to deep
amber, and the groves shone like emeralds. Under the lambent moon the
landscape was a silver shield embossed with hills and dark tree tops
and a mountain seamed with black ravines. But it was in storm that the
scene was grandest. Then the riven clouds dyed the valley and slopes
with deep shades of amber and brown, and the hills were veiled with
mist like white robed giants lifting proud heads into infinite space.
In the shadow of our sylvan retreat stands a temple--a low roofed
building without size or distinction, dedicated to the worship of
Buddha--and across the plain rise the crenelated walls of the city. The
husbandman was at work in the valley turning over the rich brown soil
with a primitive plough drawn by ox and mule yoked together or sowing
the furrows with millet dropped from a wooden scoop and trodden into
the soil by the foot of one who comes after. Patches of vivid green
showed where the seed had already begun to sprout, and where in a few
weeks would arise a forest of tangled corn twelve feet high, through
which Cossack and cavalry might strive in vain.
The sounds that reached us were few. Twice a day the bronze bell of the
temple summoned us to share our meals with the flies in the squalid
courtyard. Now and again the stillness of the night was broken by
a rifle shot, and you dreamed of Cossacks and Chinese bandits until
you woke to remembrance of the sentries posted on the edge of the
wood, along the hill tops, and at the bridge which leads Northward to
Liao-yang and Mukden. Or it might be that when you were seated round
the camp fire watching the pine branches change into livid tongues of
flame, and the pine cones grow into crimson chrysanthemum there came
through the darkness a strange and startling melody. At first a faint
murmur like the rustling of leaves in the forest, it grew louder and
stronger till you heard the deep roar of an army on the march, mingling
with the shock of arms and the shout of battle.
The Japanese soldiers were singing their war song. Now, since the
olden days when men held that the two things worth doing in this world
were fighting and love making, poetry has busied itself with war. Our
fathers fought and sang of fighting, both in admirable fashion, and
many of our songs are instinct with the joy of battle. What poetry
stirs the blood like Drayton’s “Agincourt” with the dash and rush
of its metre like the charge of a light brigade, or “The battle of
the Baltic” with the concerted music of its rolling rhythm, or that
lofty, insolent, passionate song of Sir Francis Doyle, “Red Thread
of Honour?” The true test of a war song is the power of exciting the
combative spirit and judged by that standard, the songs of the Japanese
are worthy of a place in the anthology of war. The sentiments, I
confess, seem to me political rather than martial--more suited to a
leading article than to the battle field. The words in the literal
translation have none of the real _Berserkgang_ for which we
look in battle poems, and I am driven to the belief that, like the
_Marseillaise_, the favourite song of the Japanese owes its power
to stir the blood to the remarkable way in which it marries itself to a
magnificent tune. General Sir Ian Hamilton has made skilful use of the
material in the following rendering, which he was good enough to make
at my request:--
Sons of Nippon, down with Russia!
Lawless Empire--lay her low
Faith and Justice she despises,
Russia is our mortal foe.
Even kindred foreign nations
Hate and scorn the Russian brood:
Like a wild insatiate wolf-pack
Ravening, they seek their food.
Fair Manchuria’s triple province
Scarce devoured, ere the band
Lick their blood-stained lips and fasten
On Korea--hapless land
Who, unblushing, urged “for peace sake
Render back the Liao-Tung?”
Scarce had ink dried on the parchment
Than another song was sung.
Shameless trampling down the treaty,
Grasping countries far and wide,
All the world turned against her
For her lawlessness and pride.
Comrades, can we live oblivious
Of the blood of comrades slain
Ten years since? Oh, Powers Eternal,
Did their life blood flow in vain!
There must be some end to evil
Even in our life’s short span,
That time is now--for we are marching
Down with Russia--on Japan!
Tell us not of Russia’s vastness--
Vast--may be--but poor and wild:
Boast not of her swarming millions
What are swarms unless combined?
Thousands starving: traitors lurking:
Coffers empty: lack of grain.
How shall Russia stand against us,
Stand the long and weary strain?
But our own dear, precious country
’Neath its Emperor can combine:
For one thousand years successive
Reigns that same immortal line.
We are true and we are loyal.
“Roshia,” as its letters say,[1]
“Dew,” that in the morning sunlight
From the sword blade fades away.
March then with our sunlight banner
Waving proudly in the van:
March beneath that glorious emblem.
Down with Russia--on Japan!
[1] The Japanese character for “dew” and “Russia” is identical.
It was pleasant to live on the hillside instead of in the town. The
freshness of heaven was above us: green trees were about us, and we
felt less the restraint put upon us, for this valley was our prison.
The river was our boundary on the North and East: the mountain shut
out the South, and beyond the Western heights we might not go. The
order had gone forth and we must not ask wherefor. Such was the fog of
secrecy in which the Japanese strove to hide their every movement. In
this quality of secretiveness they are the most Oriental of people, and
observe in all things the letter of the injunction, “Let not thy left
hand know what thy right hand doeth.”
Within these bounds we were free to come and go, unless some
too zealous sentry determined otherwise. It was a new sensation
this enforced confinement, but we shared it with the military
_attachés_ of the foreign Powers, and therefore could not complain
of unequal treatment.