A FORLORN HOPE.
PANLASANTZU, NOV. 1.
On the brown plain to the North-west of Temple Hill rises a rocky
mound--the scene of one of the most stirring episodes in the battle of
the Sha-ho. The Chinese call it the Three Pillars of Stone, and hold
it sacred to the god who is good to little children in the realms of
Pluto. Grey craigs spring from the two extremities, and fall abruptly
into the valley. In the centre, where the ridge bends like a strained
bow, stands a Temple. Tower and walls are dark with the twilight of a
thousand years, and look as old as the three pillars of rock that shoot
up in their midst. It is a miniature Pantheon. From the gate over which
that fierce warrior and national hero Kwan is the sleepless sentinel,
you ascend to a series of tiny shrines crowded with painted images of
Buddha and his many incarnations, and come at last to the altar of the
god to whom bereaved parents pray for the repose of the souls of their
little ones. In the shadow of the grey craig, within hexagonal walls,
sits the great god, Buddha, serene and contemplative, with a circle of
disciples about him. Alas! the images are broken, and lie prostrate at
the feet of the great Bud. From their placid brows have been plucked
the gems with which piety adorned them, and in their breasts are gaping
wounds made by sacriligious hands in search of hidden treasure. But the
gods of the heathen have been avenged, for great was the slaughter of
the men who overthrew their images and polluted their shrine.
At sunset on October the 11th the Three Pillars of Stone were held by
the Russians--wardens of the mountain range against which the might of
Japan had hurled itself on that fearful day. Under the hills to the
South-west lay our infantry waiting the signal for a night attack.
Until the sun sank below the red horizon the men looked intently
across the furrowed fields and noted every feature of the landscape,
for the night would be dark, and upon the accuracy and precision of
every step hung victory or disaster. Under the best conditions a
night assault is hazardous, and when a whole division is involved
the difficulty is immense. How shall the soldiers keep touch in the
darkness; how shall they start and arrive on the instant; how shall
they know their objective; how shall the units be kept separate;
how shall they distinguish friend from foe; how shall the attack be
delivered simultaneously at several points on an extended and unseen
front--in a word, how shall eight thousand blind men act as one man
endowed with vision, with the same purpose, the same impulse? That
is the problem which the General had to solve. Every precaution was
taken. Watches were set by one standard; a signal was agreed upon; the
physical features of the country were carefully studied: the men put on
their dark winter overcoats; a white band was on the left arm of each
man. At midnight everything was ready. The scouts lay in the furrows.
Behind them were six battalions extended in one close line with fixed
bayonets. Fifty yards to the rear were the supports in column of
company, and one hundred and fifty yards behind them in double column
of company were the reserves. The orders were that the scouts should
advance until they came under the enemy’s fire, and then lie down while
the first line moved forward to the attack, and supports and reserves
waited the moment to join in the combat.
The horror of great darkness had fallen on the land. Not a star shone
in the heavens. Suddenly the veil was rent asunder and from the
Southern heights lept a tongue of flame. The signal? A pillar of fire
and then darkness--even darkness that might be felt. Six battalions
sprang to their feet as one man; the scouts rose from the furrows and
moved forward swiftly and silently. It was one o’clock in the morning
and the advance had begun. They passed through the village and came
out upon the plain. The stubble crackled under their feet; no other
sound broke the silence, and darkness swallowed up the long line
of bayonets. In the Mansion of Devils--that name the soldiers have
given to the hill--the strength of the enemy was unknown. From the
middle of the plain rose two small eminences and in the shadow of the
Three Pillars stood a dozen houses surrounded by high mud walls. The
eminences were trenched and on two sides of the cluster of cottages
ran a seven-fold line of trenches--one close to the other like a
maze. Toward these points the infantry moved slowly and silently in a
wide crescent. On the left marched the Himaji regiment under Colonel
Yasumura, and on the right was the Fukuchiyama regiment under Colonel
Shiniozu. The brigade was commanded by Major-General Marui.
Shortly before three o’clock the scouts came upon the enemy and,
obedient to orders, lay flat on the ground, while the bullets swept
over them. In the darkness men always fire high and most of the shots
fell among the reserves, and among the divisional staff behind the
village. General Kanamura’s horse was wounded by a stray bullet. The
fight was raging when General Nozu left the Central army reserves
in the valley behind the hills and rode toward the village. General
Ramamura sent warning of the danger and implored him to return. The
advice, however unwelcome, was sound, and General Nozu, with great
reluctance, acknowledged that the Commander of an army has no right to
expose himself without due cause. He accordingly withdrew.
Slowly the line of bayonets pressed onward, closely followed by the
supports, who had now deployed and advanced in fighting formation.
The objective of the right flank was a hill in rear of the Russian
position; the left directed its steps to the Western spur of the Three
Pillars of Stone; the centre marched against the cluster of houses.
The right carried one of the eminences on the plain and, meeting with
little resistance, began to close in upon the Three Pillars of Stone.
Here, round the little cluster of cottages, was the heart of the fight.
In front of the maze of trenches the ground was swept by a horizontal
sheet of lead.
Into that deadly zone men rushed again and again to their fate. The
frenzy of battle had seized them and they heeded not the prostrate
forms under their feet. The trenches spurted fire and death, for the
men who held them were brave, and their orders were to die to the
last man rather than leave the position. They were the 37th Imperial
Regiment fresh from Europe. Their faces were untanned by the heat and
cold of Manchuria; their uniforms were new and clean, and the gold
crowns on their shoulder-straps were untarnished.
We had been told more than once that the Japanese had not met the
flower of the Russian army, and that from Europe would come another
race of soldiers who would roll back the tide of war to the very walls
of Tokyo. Here were the men from Europe: soldiers of the Imperial
Regiment, brave as lions and sworn never to surrender. Long and stoutly
they fought till the trenches ran blood. Again and again the Japanese
returned to the assault, and again and again they were driven back
leaving a trail of dead. Fiercer and fiercer grew the conflict. At
last the remnant of the Russians, losing hope of keeping the trenches,
withdrew behind the walls of the compounds and into the houses. Here
they had great advantage and availed themselves of it to the utmost.
In vain the Japanese threw away their lives. Every wall was a fortress
manned by fearless and resolute men.
“Who is ready to die for his country?” cried the colonel in command
of the left flank. “Who will set fire to the houses?” Instantly came
answer.
“I will lead the forlorn hope!” said Captain Sumita, and from the ranks
stepped two hundred soldiers.
Captain Sumita placed himself at their head and forward they went
shouting their dread battle cry. One mad rush and they were over the
trenches and under the wall. Many had fallen, and from walls and houses
swept a tornado of bullets. Reckless of life a handful of men struggled
to pass the fatal barrier. One by one they dropped until not a man in
that forlorn hope remained. The desperate enterprise had failed, and
the enemy was still in possession of the houses. Near the front of the
hamlet is a pool of stagnant water, close to which lay the Russian
commander--wounded. To him an appeal was made.
“Why should your brave men sacrifice their lives?” asked an officer.
“They have done enough to prove their courage. They are surrounded and
cannot escape. Go into the village and advise them to surrender.”
The wounded Russian gave the answer that might be expected of a gallant
soldier.
“My orders were never to leave this place alive. My men must and will
fight to the end.”
A wounded sergeant was appealed to. He went into the village with what
message none can say.
But the end was drawing near. The right flank met with little
resistance and moved toward the centre of the fight. In time they came
to the South of the hamlet where the enemy held the houses on each side
of the road. The only approach was a fire-swept triangle commanded by
a low wall and flanked by cottages. It was still night, and out of the
black veil in front of the Japanese sprang tiny jets of flame from the
rifles of the enemy. Into this deadly angle our infantry crowded after
their leader. The officer who bore the regimental flag was shot down.
From his nerveless hand the flag was taken by a second officer, who
carried it forward a few yards and then dropped with a bullet through
his body.
To the front sprang the regimental commander--Colonel Yasumura--and
seizing the flag bore it onward. The air hummed with rifle bullets
and men fell on every hand. Still they pressed into the front rank,
trampling dead and dying under their feet. No man paused or looked
back after entering that deadly angle. The wall was nearly reached when
the flag dropped from their leader’s hand. He, too, had fallen.
“Fire the houses!” was the cry that rang through the night. Toward a
little mud-walled cottage darted a handful of men. Door and window were
forced and the thatched roof went up in flame. Through the red glare
Russians and Japanese were seen shooting and stabbing. A gap was made
in the wall of the compound and through it poured a torrent of dark
uniforms. Another fierce struggle and another house was in flames while
men fought under the burning rafters. Thus from house to house and from
compound to compound swept fire and bayonet until the sky was crimson
and the earth red. It was a scene that only Wiertz could have painted.
When I visited the village the Chinese were raking among the embers of
their homes: the ground was littered with pieces of uniform, fragments
of rifle stocks, charred bones, and here and there a skull which the
dogs had knawed. Some Japanese soldiers were exhuming their comrades,
over whom a few shovelfuls of earth had been thrown, and were placing
the black and fearful forms on funeral pyres.
Step by step the Russians were driven out of the houses. On the hill
behind they rallied again and prepared to renew the conflict. Up the
steep Western spur the Japanese were already climbing, and toward the
grey craig on the East another force was fighting its way.
Dawn was at hand. From the mountains on the East stole the grey light
that revealed the Japanese steadily advancing--a _mélee_ of
men, units, companies, battalions and regiments hopelessly mixed yet
impelled by one purpose. In the darkness they had stumbled on the
Russian artillery and had captured two guns. While securing these
trophies they were thrown into a state of great alarm by the sound of
horses. “Cossacks!” was the thought that flashed through everyone’s
mind. The Russian cavalry had crossed the plain and were about to make
a counter attack! The Japanese infantry turned to meet the charge, and
fired volleys into the horses before the discovery was made that it was
not Cossacks but terrified and maddened horses of the Russian artillery.
At daybreak the hill was in our possession. The remnant of the enemy
had fled to the North, and village and fields were heaped up with dead.
The forlorn hope had not died in vain.