Xu Lei - Search for the Buried Bomber

I struggled against the waves and cried out, but my voice was lost amid the crash of the water. Caught up in the current, I was rolled end over end and rushed who knows how far to some dark and distant corner of the cave. There was nothing fun at all about this experience. To be honest, I don’t have any direct memory of what occurred, for I could see nothing and heard only the roar around me. Whatever image I have of the place originates almost entirely from my imagination. I remember only utter panic at the thought of being sucked deep underwater. I was washed along in total darkness, knowing neither when nor where my life would finally come to an end.

Then, from somewhere off to the side, the deputy squad leader turned on his flashlight. The sight of it shook me from my stupor. In the extreme blackness of the cave, the beam’s radiance was like a beacon of hope. I mustered all the strength I had left and swam hard in its direction. Upon reaching him, I saw his face was covered in blood, though he didn’t seem much affected by it. Fighting through the waves, the two of us began to search for the rest of our team. Wang Sichuan was nowhere to be found, and we didn’t know whether the three soldiers had fallen in or not. As the deputy squad leader shined about with his flashlight, I saw it was just as I had imagined: the river was extraordinarily wide. I couldn’t even make out its sides, only a vast expanse of billowing water.

“What is this place?” shouted the deputy squad leader, his voice hoarse and quavering.

But I had no idea and could only hold tightly to him. With a great deal of effort, we managed to right ourselves and began to float atop the water, though just barely. The speed of the current was astonishing. Great torrents of water rushed us toward the lower reaches of the river. Soon enough I realized I could struggle no longer. The freezing waves had sapped all of my energy. Fortunately, the deputy squad leader did not lack for strength. It was he alone who continued to fight through the water, towing me along beside him. I tried to tell him to forget about me, but I lacked even the energy to utter those few words. Who knew how long the current drove us on? At last we were both completely spent, like dry lamps with no oil to spare, when something suddenly struck my back. As the rapids flowed on around us, we were brought to an abrupt halt.

I was already numb from the cold, so although the collision was severe, I gasped for only a moment and felt not the slightest bit of pain. We felt around. Our way, we discovered, was blocked by an iron lattice sunk beneath the rapids—a screen to keep out any stray objects floating down the river. I could feel a number of branches and twigs and other pieces of debris. Thank heaven, I thought. With tears rolling down my face, I pulled myself up the latticework and clambered desperately atop it. The deputy squad leader did the same, then pulled out his flashlight and illuminated the water around us. The lattice dam was fragmented and washed away in spots. That we’d run into it at all was truly a stroke of luck. We looked at one another, our expressions indescribable—neither joyful nor sad. How strange, I thought, that a dam had been laid here. Had the Japanese been through here as well?

Just as I was thinking this, the deputy squad leader and I both noticed that something in the area beyond the dam seemed to be reflecting the beam of his flashlight. Angling it up, he directed it farther on. Our mouths dropped open. It was a gigantic bomber, the Japanese Shinzan, submerged in the river past the lattice dam. More than half the fuselage was underwater, leaving a great black shadow, while the nose and one of the wings stuck out above the surface. Most astounding, the plane had obviously been ruined in some terrible crash. All that remained before us was the wreckage.

My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the huge black cross the Shinzan’s wingspan formed underwater. As the flashlight beam illuminated the rust spots covering its body, it resembled some legendary animal of tremendous size, raising its head above water to breathe. It was the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. For anyone other than members of the mysterious “Plan 53” unit, coming across a plane this colossal in mainland China would have been impossible in those days. Back then, when a plane flew across the sky, children would all crane their necks to catch sight of it. Now, even if a fleet of fighter jets streaks overhead in formation, no one pays them any attention.

Stacked all around the bomber were the same corpse-filled gunnysacks we’d seen earlier, but here their numbers were even more astonishing. They formed a dense mass underwater and extended in every direction farther than the eye could see. They were piled one atop the other, some remaining in neat condition, others already caved in from decay, their appearance similar to the large seaside rocks that buffer the ocean waves. It was between these bags that the plane was wedged. We gingerly tiptoed onto the gunnysacks. Though they would sink down when trod upon, there was always some spot that would support our weight. Holding each other up, we began to make our way across. “What the hell were the Japanese doing here?” said the deputy squad leader.

I could say nothing in reply. Neither side of the river was visible. The flashlight illuminated only a black expanse. Soon I began to question whether this wasn’t in fact the middle of some giant subterranean lake. We made our way across the piles of unevenly stacked corpse bags. At last we reached the twisted length of one of the wings, rising above the surface. It was severely corroded, and rusty water covered our hands as we scaled its side. Thank goodness the top was dry. As we stepped upon it, the wing sank slightly under our weight. If Wang Sichuan were here, he probably would have snapped it in half, I thought to myself. I couldn’t help but take a look around, searching for him. There was no sign of the big guy, only whitecap rapids. I didn’t even know if he was alive or dead.

We were exhausted, truly on the point of collapse, my only comparable experience being the seven-day deathwatch I kept after my father passed. After reaching the top of the wing, darkness descended upon me, and I nearly crumpled to the ground. But resting was something we absolutely could not do. To rest was to die. We removed our clothing, both of us turning away at the sight of the leeches. Our blood visibly pulsed inside them, some so filled they had turned amber. In a moment I began to vomit.

For leeches a cigarette is best, but all that remained of mine was a thick paste in my pocket. I’d have to scald them off with my lighter. At the time, most people had only matches, but when used in the field it was too easy for them to become damp or start a forest fire. Those of us who could, made sure to buy a lighter. Old-fashioned lighters burned kerosene and were unusable while the wicks were damp. We had to let them dry for a long time before they would finally light. Then, one by one, we roasted the leeches off of us. Once they began to burn, we flicked them back into the water, blood spilling from our open cuts. With great difficulty we disposed of them all, bloodying ourselves in the process until we were truly frightening to look at. Only when we’d thoroughly checked each other, and made sure they were truly gone, did we finally relax. After wringing my clothes dry, I picked up the deputy squad leader’s flashlight and went to inspect the sunken bomber.