risk the dangers of the river and try to paddle their tubs and boards to the opposite shore and safety. Dai reckoned that the first contingent must already have gone to a watery grave in the icy river. He and his officers turned and squeezed their way back through the crowds.
It was now four o’clock in the morning. The road was still jammed with fleeing soldiers and civilians. One soldier was trying to wrest a thin, patched and tattered cotton gown and trousers off one man, in exchange for his own army uniform, but the man would not give them up even though he was barefoot and unable to speak from the cold. Major Dai’s shouted command went unheard and the soldier who desperately wanted to pass himself off as a Nanking shopkeeper would have ended up as another victim of ‘friendly fire’ had Dai not wanted to hang on to his remaining five bullets.
Dai groped his way through the unlit alleyways. Any buildings still standing were locked and barred. He came to an almost totally destroyed compound with a charred entrance door, walked in and found strings of yam strips hung from the eaves to dry. He cut them all down and filled his pockets with them.
He headed in what his memory of the layout of Nanking told him was an easterly direction. Most of the enemy troops had come from the east and if he could slip through to their rear and get into villages which had already surrendered, then he could hide away in these sparsely populated areas. From there he could plan the next step. It was not only knowledge and experience which made a soldier, it was natural aptitude, something Dai had in abundance and which was the reason why, at twenty-nine, he had been promoted over his peers so speedily at Baoding Military Academy.
Dai came across the first Japanese invaders at about five in the morning. This small group of soldiers appeared to have come in search of food, and were torching every house where they found none. When they arrived at the compound where Dai was hiding, he retreated to the innermost courtyard. Then he discovered that there were only half a dozen of them; he began to itch to have a go at them. A hand grenade was probably enough to deal with them. He would be a hopeless son of a bitch if he did not put his weapons to good use. Dai felt the grenade which hung from the rear of his waistband and pondered whether it was worthwhile. He did not hesitate long. A good soldier had not just knowledge, experience and ability, but also the kind of fervour which drove him into action. And Dai was seized now with the same burning hatred of the Japanese which had filled him when he fought them in Shanghai.
His heart pounding, he hid himself in the main hall of the innermost courtyard. There was a narrow alley outside the window, which he had opened and could get out of in a matter of seconds. Now he was really fired up, his frustration at the loss of Nanking completely forgotten.
The Japanese soldiers arrived in the inner courtyard and came into view. He held the pistol in one hand and, with his teeth, pulled the pin out of the grenade, silently counted to three, and then lobbed it out on the count of four. He was anxious not to waste any of the explosives he had, so the grenade had to land in the best possible position. As he threw it, he turned and hurled himself at the window. With the benefit of all his hard training, it took no more than a couple of seconds to scale the wall and land on the other side.
But the Japanese were also well trained. They had not been seriously wounded and were soon at the back windows themselves. Bullets hit the tree trunk to the left of him and the crumbling wall to the right. Then he realised one had hit him in his left side.
There was a high wall in front of him on the other side of the alley and the light from nearby fires lit up a cross atop a building inside. This must be an American church, he thought. The only way to get into the church grounds was by climbing the plane tree. He scaled its much-scarred trunk, and with each pull up, the wound in his left side oozed a spurt of blood.
When he got to the top of the wall, he saw seven or eight crosses. This was a graveyard, planted with poplars and holly, and Dai’s eye fell on a building which looked like a small temple. He dived underneath the dome, sat down, undid his buttons and took out his first-aid kit. He probed his side but could not feel a bullet. This was much better than he had imagined. Now he just needed to staunch the wound. He was bleeding freely into his jacket and its sodden weight quickly turned icy cold.
He bound up the wound, his teeth chattering uncontrollably from the cold. This foreign ‘temple’ was a perfect, miniature mausoleum. If he died here, he would be dying among strangers, he thought.
When it got light, he discovered he had slept a little.
Then he heard female voices. What were women doing here?
Six
Shujuan looked into her bowl. Each day the soup seemed to get thinner. She was convinced it was because George was giving extra food to the Qin Huai women.
While the girls were eating their meal, the young prostitute Cardamom came into the refectory. She knew what they thought of her and made no attempt at good manners, shuffling across the old floorboards in her embroidered shoes.
‘You’ve got soup!’ she said.
The girls gave her a look designed to stop the most thick-skinned woman in her tracks. It didn’t work on Cardamom.
‘We only got given two loaves. They’re really dry,’ she complained.
No one paid any attention. George had made four loaves. The sixteen girls, the two clergymen, George and Ah Gu had made do with two of them so that the prostitutes could have the rest.
‘She’s got dry bread, and now she wants soup?’ they thought. ‘Does she think she’s part of the family?’
‘Do you really eat bread every day?’ Cardamom asked. ‘I’m just a country girl. Foreign bread disagrees with me.’ She sidled over to the soup pot which sat on the table. There was only a little left in the bottom, a few overcooked strips of cabbage and scraps of noodle. Cardamom grew bolder and picked up the ladle. The handle was at right angles to the spoon, so you had to lift the handle straight up as if drawing water from a well. Cardamom couldn’t manage it and the soup kept spilling out of the ladle and back into the pot. The girls carried on eating as if she was not there.
‘Is anyone going to help me?’ she asked with an impudent smile that made dimples in her cheeks.
‘Someone should call Deacon Adornato,’ one of the girls said.
‘He’s already been called,’ said another.
Cardamom wasn’t deterred. With her lips pursed and her eyes unblinking, she concentrated on learning how to get the soup from the pot into her bowl. ‘Big deal,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll learn the trick without your help.’
She was too short for the tall pot set on the tabletop, so she stood on her toes and drew the ladle up shakily. Even if she lifted the handle above her head, she still couldn’t get the ladle out of the pot.
‘The table’s too tall,’ she said.
‘The dwarf complains about the table,’ a schoolgirl quipped.
‘I’ve seen taller winter melons,’ said another.
‘
‘A rotten winter melon,’ a third schoolgirl said.
‘Step up and have a cursing match with me!’ said Cardamom. ‘
No one wanted to pick a fight. That would be giving the slut more of their attention than she deserved. They carried on silently and soberly with their dinner. But when Cardamom turned to leave, someone piped up, ‘More rotten than a winter melon in July. No one but the flies would want it!’
It was Xiaoyu.
‘Stinks, doesn’t she?’ added Sophie.
Cardamom turned round. She walked over to where Sophie was sitting, picked up Sophie’s bowl and flung the dregs of her soup in her face.
Sophie leapt out of her chair, dripping with cabbage leaves and bits of noodle. She hurled herself at
