Eventually, she did in fact spot the clumsy, slow-moving snake in a hole in the wall above the toad, only its hideous head sticking out. Covering her eyes with her hands, she backed up as far as she could. Gone were all thoughts of trying to drink the dirty water, now guarded by a venomous snake above and a toad below.
4
FATHER, WANG GUANG (male, fifteen, short and skinny, dark face), Dezhi (male, fourteen, tall and skinny, yellow complexion, rheumy eyes), Guo Yang (male, over forty, crippled, walked on crutches), Blind Eye (real name and age unknown, never without his battered three-string zither), the woman Liu (over forty, big and tall, ulcerated legs) – the six survivors of the massacre – stared blankly at Granddad, all except Blind Eye, of course. They were standing on the village wall, the early-morning sun reflecting off their faces. Both sides of the wall were strewn with the bodies of courageous defenders and frenzied attackers. The muddy water of the ditch beyond the wall soaked the bloated corpses of several eviscerated Japanese warhorses. Everywhere there were shattered walls and ruined dikes, and white smoke curling into the sky. The sorghum fields beyond the village were trampled and destroyed. Incineration and blood were the pervasive smells of the morning; red and black the colours; grief and solemnity the moods.
Granddad’s eyes were bloodshot, his hair seemed to have turned completely white, his back was hunched, and his large, swollen hands rested uneasily on his knees.
‘Fellow villagers…’ His voice was hoarse and gravelly. ‘I brought death and destruction down on the entire village…’
They began to sob, and crystalline tears welled up even in Blind Eye’s hollow sockets.
‘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
