Mo Yan - Red Sorghum

‘What now, Commander Yu?’ Guo Yang asked through blackened teeth as he got to his feet with the aid of crutches.

‘Will the Japs be back, Commander Yu?’ Wang Guang asked.

‘Are you going to help us get away from here, Commander Yu?’ the sobbing woman Liu asked.

‘Get away?’ Blind Eye said. ‘To where? The rest of you can run if you want to, but if I’m going to die it’ll be right here.’

He sat down, hugged his battered zither to his chest, and began to pluck it, his mouth twisting, his cheeks twitching, his head swaying.

‘Fellow villagers, we can’t run away,’ Granddad said. ‘Not after so many men have died. The Japs’ll be back, so, while there’s time, gather up the weapons and ammunition from the bodies. We’ll take the Japs on until either the fish die or the net breaks!’

They fanned out in the field, stripping the bodies of weapons and ammunition, making trip after trip with their booty to the village side of the wall. Guo Yang, on his crutches, and the woman Liu, with her ulcerated legs, worked the nearby corpses, while Blind Eye sat beside the growing pile of weapons and ammunition, cocking his ear to pick up any sounds, like a good sentry.

At midmorning they assembled at the wall to watch Granddad take an inventory of the arsenal. Since the battle had lasted till dark, the Japs had been unable to make a final sweep of the battlefield, much to Granddad’s advantage.

They had picked up seventeen Japanese ‘38’ repeater rifles and thirty-four leather pouches, with a total of 1,007 copper-jacketed cartridges. There were twenty-four Chinese copies of the Czech ‘79’ rifle and twenty-four bandoliers with 412 cartridges. They brought back fifty-seven Japanese petal-shaped muskmelon grenades and forty-three Chinese grenades with wooden handles. There was also a Japanese ‘tortoiseshell’ pistol with thirty-nine cartridges, one Luger and seven bullets, nine Japanese sabres, and seven carbines with over two hundred rounds of ammo.

The inventory completed, Granddad asked Guo Yang for his pipe, which he lit and began puffing as he sat on the wall.

‘Dad, can we form our own army?’ Father asked.

Granddad looked at the pile of weapons and kept silent. When he’d finished his pipe he said, ‘It’s time to choose, my sons, one weapon apiece.’

He picked up the pistol in the tortoiseshell holster and fastened it around his waist. He also picked out a ‘38’ repeater rifle with a fixed bayonet. Father grabbed the Luger. Wang Guang and Dezhi each chose a Japanese carbine.

‘Give the Luger to Uncle Guo,’ Granddad said.

Stung by the order, Father grumbled.

‘I want you to use a carbine,’ Granddad said. ‘A gun like that’s no good in battle.’

‘I’ll take a carbine, too,’ Guo Yang said. ‘Give the Luger to Blind Eye.’

‘Make us something to eat,’ Granddad said to the woman Liu. ‘The Japs’ll be back soon.’

Father picked up a ‘38’ repeater rifle and noisily worked the bolt back and forth.

‘Be careful,’ Granddad cautioned him. ‘It might go off.’

‘I know. Don’t worry.’

‘They’re coming, Commander,’ Blind Eye said softly. ‘I hear them.’

‘Get down,’ Granddad ordered. ‘Hurry!’

They crouched down among the white wax reeds on the inside slope of the wall, keeping their eyes riveted on the sorghum field beyond the ditch. All except Blind Eye, who was still sitting alongside the pile of weapons, rocking his head as he plucked his zither.

‘You get down here, too!’ Granddad ordered him.

Blind Eye’s face twitched painfully and his lips quivered. The same tune emerged over and over from his battered zither, like raindrops in a tin bucket.

What appeared on the other side of the ditch was not human figures, but hundreds of dogs emerging from the sorghum field and rushing headlong toward the scattered corpses, hugging the ground. Fur of every imaginable colour pulsated in the sunlight. Leading the pack were the three dogs from our family.

My father, always one to squirm, was getting impatient. He aimed at the pack of dogs and fired. The bullet whizzed over their heads and tore into the sorghum stalks.

Wang Guang and Dezhi, holding real rifles for the first time in their lives, aimed at the swaying sorghum and fired. Their bullets either tore aimlessly through the sky or smacked wildly into the ground.

‘Hold your fire!’ Granddad barked angrily. ‘This ammo isn’t for you kids to play with!’ He kicked Father’s upturned rump.

The movement deep in the sorghum field gradually subsided, and a mighty shout rent the air: ‘Hold your fire — whose troops are you —’

‘Your old ancestors’ troops!’ Granddad shouted back. ‘You damned yellow-skinned dogs!’

He aimed his ‘38’ and fired a round in the direction of the shout.

‘Comrades — we’re the Jiao-Gao regiment — anti-Japanese troops!’ the man in the sorghum field yelled. ‘Tell me, whose troops are you?’

‘Damn them!’ Granddad cursed. ‘All they know how to do is shout!’

The eighty soldiers of the Jiao-Gao regiment emerged from the sorghum field in a crouch. Their uniforms were in tatters, their faces sallow; they looked like wild animals terrified by the sight of guns. For the most part they were unarmed, except for a couple of wooden-handled grenades hanging at their belts. The squad up front carried old Hanyang rifles; a few of the others had muskets.

The previous afternoon, Father had seen this group of men hiding deep in the sorghum field and sniping at the Japs who were attacking the village.

The troops made their way up to the wall, where a tall fellow, apparently an officer, said, ‘Squad One up to the hill for sentry duty! The rest of you can take a break.’

As the Jiao-Gao soldiers broke ranks and sat on the wall, a handsome young man stepped forward, took a piece of yellow paper from his knapsack, and began teaching the men a song: ‘The wind is howling’ — he began — ‘The wind is the wind is the wind is the wind is howling’ — the troops followed — ‘watch me, sing together — The horses are neighing — The Yellow River is roaring the Yellow River is roaring the Yellow River is roaring the Yellow River is roaring — In Henan and Hebei the sorghum is ripe the sorghum is ripe — The fighting spirit of heroes in the green curtain is high the fighting spirit of anti-Japanese resistance heroes in the green curtain is high — Raise your muskets and cannon your muskets and cannon wield your sabres and your spears your sabres and your spears defend your homes defend North China defend the country —’

Oh, how Father envied the youthful expressions on the weathered faces of the Jiao-Gao soldiers, and as he listened to them sing, his throat began to itch. All of a sudden he recalled the handsome young Adjutant Ren and the way he’d led the singing.

He, Wang Guang, and Dezhi picked up their rifles and walked up to enjoy the singing of the Jiao-Gao soldiers, who envied them their new Japanese ‘38’ rifles and carbines.

The man in command of the Jiao-Gao regiment was named Jiang. He had such small feet they called him Little Foot Jiang. He walked up to Granddad, a boy of sixteen or seventeen at his side. He had a pistol stuck in his belt and was wearing a khaki cap with two black buttons. His teeth were pearly white. In heavily accented Beijing dialect, he said, ‘Commander Yu, you’re a hero! We witnessed your battle with the Japs yesterday!’

He stuck out his hand, but Granddad just gave him a cold stare and snorted contemptuously.

The embarrassed Commander Jiang pulled back his hand, smiled, and continued: ‘I’ve been asked by the special committee of the Binhai area to talk to you. They’re so impressed with your fervent nationalism and heroic spirit of self-sacrifice in this great war of national survival that they have ordered me to propose that we join forces in a coordinated move to resist the Japanese….’