Lower Than the Low

Soldiery has always been looked down upon in Chinese history as the lowest of occupations. Being a puppet soldier is the lower than the low. I can only endeavor to bring honor to what I am today...

I am a young Chinese Manchurian. It is the summer of 1943. I’ve become a puppet soldier.

I was starving. The Imperial Japanese arrived. Several of my brothers and sisters had already starved to death in the chaos amid the fighting between the Chinese Nationals, Chinese Communists, and Chinese warlords, all hungry, all bandits... I wasn't hard to recruit. Besides, I noticed their bayonets were long, hard, sharp, bloodied, organized, and very judgmental...

I now eat Japanese rice and wear what uniforms they give me. I am certainly not proud or happy, but I am alive. As long as I am alive, there is hope. I am careful to hide such hope from the eyes of the occupiers. My people refer me to as a ‘puppet soldier’ because I serve foreign masters. I believe we will overcome them. I secretly do what I can to help that day arrive.

My family is held hostage. The Japanese have ‘registered’ them. If I disobey orders or join the guerrillas, my family will be killed first. I adore my younger sisters. I want them to be proud of me. I cannot be the cause of their deaths...

I do what I can to resist, to keep myself alive, and to keep my family alive. For the rice in my bowl and the clothes on my back I go through the minimum motions of serving the Japanese, but I look for opportunities to help my people. Not all of us are so honorable. There are those who enjoy, and abuse, their Japanese-given power.

When the Japanese are not garrisoned nearby and we encounter ‘bandits’, we both have a policy of “live and let live”. When I am ordered to fight the Chinese Nationals or the Chinese Communists, I shoot, but I aim high, hoping I do not hit any Chinese. Once we did kill one, and we apologized as soon as the Japanese were gone. Sometimes we are ordered to simply give the communist bandits our weapons. This is a dangerous game our officers play against the Japanese. My former Captain’s luck ran out one day reporting to the local Japanese Policy Determiner:

“You see, our brave men have killed these bandits. 18 heads. Here!”
(The visiting European dignitary removed his teacup from the table...)
“They look like the heads of villagers killed by bandits.”
“No, no!”
“I think I recognize some of these heads.”
“No! You must be mistaken!”

“How many men of yours were killed in the fight?”
“We were lucky, none.”
“I see none of you were even wounded. That is a great feat.”
The Captain nods uneasily...
“You had 10 rounds of ammunition. How much do you have left?”
“None… it was a very hard fight.”
“It must have been. Where are your guns?”
“After we used up our ammunition, we threw our guns aside and fought the bandits with our knives.”
“So you have your knives?”
“It is a great pity, but in our haste we left them behind.”

The Japanese determiner had heard enough, and stood up angered, and yelled:
“You fought no bandits!
Instead you gave them your arm and ammunition once again,
so they could make our administration difficult.
We seek to restore peace and happiness to this country.
You will go to your barracks and await military trial…”

Soldiery has always been looked down upon in Chinese history as the lowest of occupations. Being a puppet soldier is the lower than the low. I did not choose my lot in life. I can only endeavor to bring honor to what I am today.

What am I worth,
lower than low that I am,
blintoof all
beyond my frustrated vision?

Have I done anything
worth the praise that I seek,
will I die
before I win this fight I’ve been given?

As I struggle to survive
I see those who’ve organized
become masters,
and rule.

Those who don’t
are harvested in rows
and become puppets,
the master’s hand's tools…

It is evening. My patrol halts for the night. I take off my canvas haversack and unroll my blanket. My personal hygiene kit is still unused. Not using it is a manly thing we have going in the unit. There are a few scoundrels in my outfit. I’d strangle them with my brown leather ammunition belt, but I think, what am I going to do, strangle every scoundrel in the world? No, there must be something grand I can do… I daydream about a world-famous young Manchurian peasant soldier who benefited the world by ridding it of its scoundrels… and married his childhood sweetheart...

The evening sky appears as dawn,
but who owns the dawn?
The Japanese, self-proclaimed 
God's chosen superior race 
have claimed that, too.
The Chinese are content with the evening,
for we seem to be ever fading...

I clean my Japanese Arisaka 38 rifle and bayonet as ordered. A detachment of White Russians ride by on their large horses. The White Russians fought the Bolsheviks, and in 1921 were forced to flee here to Manchukuo, as the Imperial Japanese have renamed Manchuria. The few thousand White Russians have offered their services to the Japanese, their hotheaded leader has impossible dreams of defeating the Soviets and returning to Russia. Riding with them is a fat Chinese Minister of Pacification in an old 1930’s cast-off Japanese uniform. Following are some Manchurian musicians in their French Foreign Legion-like caps, and Imperial Guardsmen with their tall American policeman hats. A squad from the Manchukuo Army rides by wearing German M1935 steel helmets from Germany, and Inner Mongolian guardsmen wear their centuries-old pointed sheepskin caps, and ride their sturdy ponies. All puppets, we are, with our own colors and delusions. I dream of rainbows and puppets, until it is my turn for the watch…

In the 1600’s the Mongol-like Manchu’s rode out of Manchuria and conquered all of China, drawing to an end the long reign of the Ming Dynasty. Under the Manchu’s own Qing Dynasty the Han Chinese were made to wear their hair in queues. Japan gained Manchurian territory in 1895 in a short, lopsided war with China, fueling China’s feelings of inferiority. Russia and Japan fought for control of Manchuria in 1904-1905. Japan was victorious over the Czar’s naval and ground forces. The end of the Manchu’s Qing Dyansty came in 1911. The Chinese cut off their queues and splintered into the Nationalists, the warlords, and the Communists, all armed, and all hungry. The Imperial Japanese invaded in full force in the 1930’s, grabbing raw material and manpower to fuel the Empire of the Rising Sun…

The Japanese offer us two meals a day, at 9am and 5pm, consisting of kaoliang, rice, and vegetables. We refuse the 5pm meal, as it is not our normal practice to eat so much. Twice a week our meal includes meat…

Some bandits hide in the villages after an attack. That is bad for the village, as we are ordered to kill all males of the village, as there is no way to tell the bandits from the farmers. I suggest we check their hands, which will tell them apart. I am told it is too dangerous. The Japanese order us to begin punishing villages for harboring bandits. Everyone is killed. I suggest they be rounded up instead and placed in camps. They tell me they do not have the resources. I remind them that maybe the villagers are mere hostages to the bandits. They tell me perhaps, but they cannot rely on guesswork, as one mistake means death. The others warn me not to be so brash, that I could easily be shot. Instead the leaders are amused by me, perhaps envying my innocence. They tell me, “We are not all-powerful Gods who can wield such mercy. Now go, young idealist. We hope your world arrives soon, but it does not exist here today.”

It is now August, 1945. I am still alive, and still a young idealist. We are now being overrun by 1,600,000 Allied-supplied Soviets. I roam the countryside for a while, in a daze. I am told that the Chinese Nationals under Chiang Kai-Shek are dealing with puppet soldiers harshly for fighting against them with the Japanese. I am captured by the Soviets, and sent to join the Communists. The Communists welcome me as a ready-made soldier, along with 75,000 others from my region, to help them fight the Nationals. The Communists have rice and clothes. They are fervent, full of Mao's thoughts, but I am still just a tool, and now a bandit. I wonder about my family, especially my sisters.

I am not supposed to feel
or think about my family,
me, lower than low
when my fight is not won.
Will it come?

Sometimes I have the feelings of a person,
mostly I am a hardened tool.
Those around me now have purpose,
vision and hope,
though perhaps only that of fools.

My early life wasn’t perfect,
it was hard;
but there were moments that were precious.
I carry them with me.

I march toward the next dawn,
or is it evening,
I cannot tell now, they are so mixed.
Neither will lose a tear
when my ever close-at-hand death
that I court catches me unawares.