could be conveyed from the rear. We only munched hard biscuits, our
“iron rations,” could not dip with one hand a drop of water to drink,
and did not sleep even a moment. But because we were so excited and
anxious and determined, no thought occurred to us of being sleepy or
hungry. The Russians also were in a similar condition. When we examined
their skirmish-trenches, after our occupation of the place, we found
them full of nastiness; the men must have remained there without moving
one step for the long fifty-eight hours. The only difference was that
they had no difficulty in the way of provisions, for our men were made
happy with the black bread, lump-sugar, etc., that the enemy had left
behind.
The first thing we felt when our work was done was sleepiness! We
desired nothing but sleep. Groups here and there, talking about their
dead comrades and their experiences, soon began to nod, one man after
another, and would lie down under the coverings of the enemy’s trenches
in a most innocent, childlike manner. The Russian dead scattered all
about, weltering in blood, did not disturb their profound sleep.
Neither did they think of eating or drinking; their snores sounded like
distant thunder. Occasional bullets of the enemy did not disturb them
even as much as the humming of mosquitoes.
The sublimity of a battle can only be seen in the midst of showers of
bullet and shell, but the dismal horror of it can best be observed
when the actual struggle is over. The shadow of impartial Death visits
friend and foe alike. When the shocking massacre is over, countless
corpses covered with blood lie long and flat in the grass and between
stones. What a deep philosophy their cold faces tell! When we saw the
dead at Nanshan, we could not help covering our eyes in horror and
disgust. But the scene here, though equally shocking, did not make us
shudder half so much. Some were crushed in head and face, their brains
mixing with dust and earth. The intestines of others were torn out and
blood was trickling from them. The sight of these things, however, did
not horrify us very much. At Nanshan we did not actually fight, but
only visited the scene afterward. This time we were accustomed to these
sights through the long hours of suffering and desperate struggle.
At Nanshan, with the enemy’s dead in front of us, we could not but
sympathize with and pity them; but here we hated and loathed them.
How were they to blame? Were not they also warriors who died in the
discharge of their duty? But after a hard struggle with them, in which
we had had to sacrifice the lives of so many of our beloved men, our
hearts involuntarily hated our opponents, who we wished had yielded
to us more easily, but who resisted us to their utmost—and butchered
our men from their secure trenches, thrusting out their guns from the
holes. Of course our reason does not sanction it, but those who have
had experience in actual fighting will easily sympathize with this
sense of hatred and indignation at the sight of the dead of a brave
but stubborn foe. Of course it is a silly thing, and we do all admire
without stint their valor and perseverance. Their success in keeping
us at bay for fifty-eight hours, under our overwhelming attack, is
certainly worthy of a great military power. One Russian was found
dead in a skirmish-trench with his head bandaged. Probably he fought
on bravely in spite of his first wound until a second shot from our
side gave him his death-blow. Those Russian dead, scattered in front
of their breastworks, must have been the brave ones who rushed out of
their trenches when we burst in, and fought us with their bayonets
and fists. Some had photographs of their wives and children in their
bosoms, and these pictures were bespattered with blood. One inclined so
to do may condemn it as effeminate and weak to carry such things into
battle; but thousands of miles away from home, at the dismal and bloody
seat of war, where they could not hear from their beloved ones, was it
not natural for them to yearn after them deep down in their hearts and
console themselves with the sight of these pictures? It is human nature
that every new landscape, every new phase of the moon, makes one think
of home and friends—and brave fighters are also human, are they not?
“The bravest is the tenderest,
The loving are the daring.”
Are not these the poet’s words? Those poor Russian soldiers, hunted out
to the battle-field by the fury of oppression, had to suffer and die
far away from home. Their situation deserves nothing but commiseration
and sympathy!
As soon as the battle was over, my servant came to me with a hold-all
left by the Russians. We opened it and found it full of all kinds of
things, and among them a suit of Chinese clothes. This latter item
was a surprise to us, and also an explanation. We had seen Russian
scouts in Chinese costume who had appeared within our picket-line, and
now at last we had found out their secret. They were certainly clever
in the trick of quickly changing costume and character as if on the
stage. During the War of American Independence, the English sentries
were killed almost nightly by the enemy clad in goat-skins. Had the
Russians learned the art from the Americans? They tried every trick in
scouting—it was not only the real Russians who undertook this work,
but even ghosts and apparitions were invited to join. We found also
Japanese flags that they had left; perhaps they had even tried to
deceive us with our own colors.
After this battle we captured some damaged machine-guns; this was the
firearm most dreaded by us. A large iron plate serves the purpose of a
shield, through which aim is taken, and the trigger can be pulled while
the gun is moving upward, downward, to the left, or to the right. More
than six hundred bullets are pushed out automatically in one minute,
as if a long, continuous rod of balls was being thrown out of the gun.
It can also be made to sprinkle its shot as roads are watered with a
hose. It can cover a larger or smaller space, or fire to a greater
or less distance as the gunner wills. Therefore, if one becomes the
target of this terrible engine of destruction, three or four shot may
go through the same place in rapid succession, making the wound very
large. The bullets are of the same size as those used in rifles. A
large number of these shot are inserted in a long canvas belt—and this
belt is loaded into the chamber of the gun; it works like the film of
the vitascope. And the sound it makes! Heard close by, it is a rapid
succession of tap, tap, tap; but from a distance it sounds like a
power loom heard late at night when everything else is hushed. It is
a sickening, horrible sound! The Russians regarded this machine-gun
as their best friend, and certainly it did very much as a means of
defense. They were wonderfully clever in the use of this machine. They
would wait till our men came very near them, four or five _ken_ only,
and just at the moment when we proposed to shout a triumphant Banzai,
this dreadful machine would begin to sweep over us as if with the
besom of destruction, the result being hills and mounds of dead. After
this battle of Taipo-shan we discovered in the enemy’s position the
body of one soldier called Hyodo, who had been one of the forlorn-hope
scouts of the Second Company. He had no less than forty-seven shot
in his body, twenty-five on the right arm only. Another soldier of a
neighboring regiment received more than seventy shot. These instances
prove how destructive is the machine-gun! Of course, the surgeons could
not locate so many wounds in one body, and they invented a new name,
“Whole body honeycombed with gun-wounds.” Whenever our army attacked
the enemy’s position, it was invariably this machine-gun that made us
suffer and damaged us most severely.
In this camp we found four or five of the enemy’s war-dogs dead. They
were strongly built, with short brown hair and sharp clever faces. They
were shot by our guns, and, though brutes, had participated in the
honorable death of the battle-field. The Russians train these dogs for
war purposes and make them useful in more ways than one. I am told that
sometimes these dogs acted as scouts.
I carefully inspected the scene of this terrible fight and learned how
strong were both the natural position and the arrangements for defense.
I almost marveled at our final success, even with a terrible loss of
life and blood. Our engineers dug out a number of ground-mines and
destroyed wire-entanglements put up by the enemy. The Russian loss was
also very severe; a large number of their dead were left in the camp
or on the line of their retreat—those whom they with difficulty picked
up, were piled upon ten or more ox-carts and carried away through
Hanchia-tun toward Port Arthur.
Let me leave the battle-field for a while and tell you what impression
our army gave the Russians, and also recount the story of one or two
valiant soldiers. After this battle, our detachment picked up a note
written by the commander of a Russian division. Translated, it is as
follows:—
“The Japanese army knows how to march, but not how to retreat. Once
they begin to attack a position, they continue most fiercely and most
obstinately. That I can approve of, but when circumstances do not
permit a forward march, a retreat may sometimes be made useful. But
the Japanese always continue an attack irrespective of the amount of
danger. Probably the Japanese books of tactics make no study at all of
retreating.”
Is ours a mere “wild-boar” courage, not to know how to retreat?
“Back-roving” (_sakaro_) was ridiculed by the old warriors of
Japan—our modern fighters also despise the idea of retreating. It
may be a mistake, but “to show one’s back to the enemy” has always
been considered the greatest disgrace a _samurai_ could bring upon
himself. This idea is the central military principle of the people
of Japan. This note of the Russian general is good testimony to the
spirit pervading our ranks, “determined to death” and to fight on with
strenuous perseverance. Every time we fought we won, because we did not
believe in retreating. The Russians, who were taught to believe that a
retreat may sometimes be made useful, and who often boasted of their
“masterly retreats,” do not seem to have gained many victories by their
skill in falling back.
To illustrate the truth of the Russian general’s statement as to the
spirit and determination of our men, I will recount here one or two
instances. On the 27th one Sukeichi Matsumoto, assigned to the duty of
a scout, braved the storm of fire and encouraged his comrades, always
at the head of the little group and pressing on hard. Just after the
dawn of that day he noticed blood trickling down his face, upon which
he cried, “I’m done for!” He repeated the exclamation several times in
succession and then fell. His corporal ran to the spot, raised him, and
cried: “Keep up your spirits, my man!” Upon which Sukeichi opened his
eyes, grasped the corporal’s hand, and said, with a smile: “Why! I’m
all right! Please march on!” Scarcely had the words escaped from his
lips when he breathed his last.
There was a particularly brave sergeant called Semba in the Eighth
Company. In the battle of Kenzan he distinguished himself by rushing in
before others upon the enemy. He was used to march on, crying all the
time, “_I_ will avenge you, depend upon it!” thus comforting the dying
or wounded who lay along his way. This he meant as an eternal farewell
or a healing word as the case might be. So his subordinates loved him
as their elder brother and thought they would be perfectly satisfied
if they could die with Sergeant Semba. His lieutenant especially loved
this sergeant and believed him to be better than a hundred ordinary
men. For all difficult duties, he singled out this Semba, whose efforts
were usually successful because of his composure and bravery. On the
27th, when the desperate march was set afoot, the sergeant held his men
firmly together and pressed on headlong, crying, as usual, “_I_ will
avenge you, depend upon it!” to those falling right and left. At last
he himself fell at the feet of his lieutenant, who tried to raise him
and felt warm blood running over his hands. “I’m done for!” said the
sergeant, faintly. “Keep up your spirits, Sergeant Semba!” The brave
fellow spat out the blood that was filling his throat and with his eyes
full of tears said: “Lieutenant! Port Arthur—” Without finishing his
sentence he expired. Did he mean to say that he regretted dying before
the final assault on Port Arthur? Or did he pray with tears that that
fortress might fall into our hands as quickly as possible? Whatever
it might be, one thing is certain, that this true patriot thought of
nothing but Port Arthur in the moment of his death!
[Illustration: Japanese kanji Ch. XIX.]
THE FIRST AID STATION
SINCE the opening of hostilities on the heights to the northeast
of Hwangni-chuan and Tashang-tun, I had been too excited over the
fighting to think of anything else, but now I began to think of my
friend, Surgeon Yasui, and to wonder whether he had passed through the
struggle in safety. On the eve of the 28th, when threatening clouds
were gathering in the sky, I was walking alone under the willow trees
along a small stream below Taipo-shan, by which we had bivouacked. As I
was thinking that he must be extremely busy taking care of the wounded,
suddenly I heard the clicking sound of an officer’s boots, and he stood
beside me.
“Dr. Yasui!”
“Lieutenant Sakurai!”
“Are you quite well?”
We shook hands heartily and, after commenting upon each other’s
emaciated appearance, discussed the severity and horror of the recent
fight. Captain Matsumaru, who had been wounded, also came along,
shouldering his sword, which had been bent out of shape by the shot
that had opened a round window in its blade. He too joined earnestly
in our conversation about the recent battle. From Surgeon Yasui we
obtained a minute description of the sad and horrible scenes at the
first aid station.
During the battle the enemy’s shot fell constantly in the vicinity
of the native dwellings, and in our temporary bandaging station the
danger was very great. One time a big shell came through the roof and
exploded in the courtyard, and a large number of the wounded men in
the house were blown to pieces, the walls and pillars were spotted
with blood and flesh; a shocking sight it was. On another occasion,
just as the stretcher-bearers had brought in a wounded soldier from
the battle-line with great difficulty, and put him down in the yard,
an enemy’s shot came flying and killed the poor man on the spot. These
unfortunate fellows had fought valiantly on the battle-line, and had
been picked up and carried back with wounds of honor, only to be killed
in such a miserable way. The enemy’s projectiles followed our brave men
everywhere and killed them without mercy.
The dreary heartrending scene at the first aid is utterly beyond
description. One cannot help associating it with the horrors of hell.
As soon as a wounded man is carried back, be he officer or private,
surgeons and hospital orderlies give him the necessary first aid. As
the firing on the battle-line increases in intensity, the number of the
wounded increases faster and faster, and the surgeons and others have
more than they can do. While attending one man, they notice perhaps
that another man begins to breathe hard and lose his color. While
giving a few drops of brandy to the second man, a third man may be
expiring without any medical aid. Hardly have they had time to dress
one man’s wound properly, when ten or fifteen new ones are brought in.
The surgeons are surrounded right and left by fatally wounded men.
They work hard in their shirt sleeves, their whole attire covered with
blood. Some men are bandaged, and others with broken limbs are helped
by a splint. Of course all is done hurriedly and is only a temporary
aid, but they are kept so busy, and the whole scene is so sad and
urgent, that they feel as if they were losing their minds every moment,
so much have they on their hands and so little can they actually do.
But those lying in this house or that yard are all brave soldiers.
They would not grumble even if medical care were slow in coming, or
insufficient when it came. They show no discontent, they have no
special desires. Because the heat and excitement of the battle-field
is still with them, they want to rush to the first line once more,
whenever they hear the yell of fighters or the boom of guns. The
surgeons try hard to pacify them and keep them still. Those made
insane by wounds in the head raise faint cries of “Tenno Heika
Banzai”[49] or of “Rusky,” and stagger about. If a surgeon holds them
fast, they angrily rebuke him, saying, “You Rusky!” The result of these
frantic movements is generally an abundant loss of blood, soon followed
by fainting and death.
On the 27th there was a specially large number of wounded. The farmyard
in front of the first aid station was filled with the suffering from
one end to the other. While a surgeon is taking care of one, some
one behind pulls him by his trousers. On looking back, he finds a
man leaning against him and like an innocent baby falling into the
sleep that knows no awakening. “Mine is a life that cannot be saved,
please kill me at once.” So shouts a man in agony, clutching a surgeon
with both hands. One sergeant crept on his hands, dragging his legs
to the side of a surgeon. “Please, surgeon, the man over there is
one of my company; he breathes so hard that it may be of no use, but
please see him once more.” This entreaty was accompanied by tears of
sympathy. This kind sergeant was seriously injured, but his love of
his subordinate made him brave and gallant. There were many also who
themselves were on the brink of the grave, and yet who insisted on
their comrades being first attended to, saying that they could well
afford to wait. What noble self-denial! The brave men, though panting
and gasping, with livid faces and blood-covered bodies, kept the true
spirit of Bushido, which could not be soiled with the dust of battle,
nor did they lose it with their heart’s blood.
On the morning of the 27th a private came to the first aid station with
a distracted, hollow countenance. A surgeon who noticed him asked,
“What is the matter with you? Wounded?” No answer came from him, his
lips moved in vain. The surgeon asked again, “What is it? I cannot
know if you do not tell.” Still no answer was forthcoming. The surgeon
thought it very strange, and while gazing at the man’s face he noticed
a little blood on it. On closer examination it was found that this man
had been shot through the temple from right to left, so that he had
lost both sight and hearing. No sooner did the surgeon discover this
than he began to attend to his case. But when he tenderly took the poor
man’s hand, the soldier grated his teeth and muttered “Revenge.” His
body stiffened very rapidly and he soon breathed his last. Poor brave
fellow, he did not know he was dying, but was only anxious to fight
again.
Here is another case. A wounded private came rushing into the station,
swinging both arms as if in great haste. “It is a hot fight, extremely
interesting! We shall occupy the place very soon.” The surgeon asked
him, “Are you wounded?” “A little at the waist,” was the answer. As
the surgeon was very anxious about the issue of the day, he asked
the man: “Have you killed many of the enemy? Which side has more
casualties?” The man lowered his voice and said, “Once again, there are
more casualties on Japan’s side.”
Then the surgeon examined his “little wound” about the waist and was
astonished at the seriousness of the case. The flesh of the right hip
had been entirely swept away by a shell. He was so proud of his bravery
in action and faithful discharge of duty, that he did not know that
drop by drop his very life was ebbing away. He talked about the battle
cheerfully and in high spirits. “All right! Your bandaging is finished.
You may go.” At this word from the surgeon the man stood on his legs,
but could not walk a step. The fever of war makes it possible for a man
to walk and even run in such a condition. But once brought in by the
bearers his nerves relax and he begins to feel the pain all at once.
There have been many instances of this, and I was one of the number.
I did not feel any pain at all during the two days I was lying on the
field, but oh! the pain I began to feel when I was taken to the first
aid and bandaged; the agony I then felt was so great that I wished I
had died on the field. “To come to life from death,” was certainly my
own case, but I could not at all appreciate my rare good fortune at
that time. I thought that Heaven was cruel not to have killed me at
once, instead of leaving me to suffer pain harder than death itself, in
a state half dead and half alive.
While the fighting is yet going on the Red-Cross flags here and there
beckon to those who are wounded in the field. The brave men who die on
the spot receive no benefit from the great charity, but the wounded
receive and monopolize its benefits, and sometimes feel as if they were
stealing something from the worthy dead. As soon as a battle begins,
the stretcher-carriers go about the field with stretchers on their
shoulders, pick up the wounded at the front, and carry them to the
first aid. These coolies—or carriers—must also be as brave and earnest
as real combatants, else they could not do their work in an extremely
dangerous place and moment. They are intrusted with the philanthropic
and perilous business of braving sword and shot, searching out the
wounded and carrying them to a safe place. They must share their scanty
food and precious water with their patients, and must take every
possible care of them and comfort and cheer them with loving hearts.
The stretcher-bearer’s hard toil and noble work deserve our unbounded
gratitude.
The sick and wounded who are sent back to the hospitals at home are
clad in white and given the kind and faithful nursing and comforting of
the surgeons and women nurses. I myself am one of those who received
their care with tears of gratitude. In a home hospital everything is
kindness and sympathy, but how is it at the front? In the summer, when
I took part in actual engagements, large armies of flies attacked the
wretched patients, worms would grow in the mouth or nose, and some of
them could not drive the vermin away because their arms were useless.
Hospital orderlies would fain have helped these poor sufferers, but
their number was so small that there was only one of them to a hundred
of the wounded. And the patients were exposed to the scorching sun
in the day and to the rain or dew of the night, without covering.
Sometimes the patients, after lying long on the field, were in an
indescribable condition, and it was necessary to soak them in a stream
and scrub them with a broom before dressing their wounds. These horrors
were solely due to an unexpectedly large number of casualties produced
by the unforeseen severity of the fighting. Those in charge of the
surgical work were eager to take care of all as quickly as possible,
and send them back to be healed and made ready to rejoin the ranks of
the combatants as soon as possible; but as they had to crowd more than
a thousand patients into a field hospital provided for two hundred,
they were powerless to give any better care to the sufferers.
[Illustration: Japanese kanji Ch. XX.]
FOLLOWING UP THE VICTORY