Chapter 3: Departure

When the veterans had free time, they would always gather together and speak crudely about women, as if all they ever thought about was the matter between their legs.

In truth, I could tell most of their bawdy talk was made up; many of these veterans were still inexperienced lads.

They probably hadn’t even seen a fresh, tender young woman, yet they spoke with flying spittle and exaggerated bravado. At the time, I had no interest in exposing their fabrications.

But after I too became a veteran, I often joined in such coarse talk, sometimes even more boldly than them.

Because these crude jokes allowed the new recruits a brief respite from their fear, helped the veterans forget their wounds, and the despair of the future ahead… — excerpted from Hu Biao’s diary collection “Nonsense” —

About two hours later, Hu Biao and his group set off.

Drawn out into a long line, except for a commanding officer in his forties riding a chestnut horse, the rest traveled on foot.

At departure, Hu Biao wasn’t even issued a rifle.

In the entire unit, only a few squad leaders, veterans, carried old Hanyang rifles.

Those like Hu Biao were told they would be armed and trained only after reaching the assembly point in Shanghai and joining a new unit.

Fortunately, before leaving, each person received some rations and a pair of cloth shoes.

The rations were fine white flour steamed buns, and the shoes were tightly stitched, layered-soled new pairs; it was said local villagers had stayed up late to make them.

And so began a long march.

Step by step, Hu Biao traced the routes his ancestors in northern Jiangsu had taken for generations, passing through ancient counties, towns, and villages each with a history spanning over a thousand years.

Counties and towns were small and exquisite; along the roads, carefully tended rice paddies stretched out, or rivers and ponds gleamed.

As they passed, the wind rippled golden waves of rice; farmers wearing straw hats worked the fields, fishermen cast their nets from small boats.

Even the air carried the joy of an approaching autumn harvest, a promise of plenty.

From afar, the scene looked like a beautiful landscape painting.

But Hu Biao knew this peaceful and lovely tableau would not last long—it would soon face a terrible catastrophe under the iron heel of the Japanese invaders.

Just thinking of this filled him with inexplicable sorrow, for upon this land lived ancestors who shared his very blood.

During the march, he gathered more details.

They were currently in the Rugao area of northern Jiangsu; the date was August 19th, 1937, the eighth day since the Battle of Shanghai had begun.

The fighting was fierce with heavy casualties on both sides, and reinforcements were being rushed to Shanghai.

Their unit of over 130 men was the Third Replacement Company of the Jiangsu Provincial Security Regiment.

Most of these new recruits around Hu Biao were farmers from Rugao, or small craftsmen like carpenters and bricklayers.

They had been hastily enlisted and had no training.

It was said that once they reached Shanghai, they would only help dig trenches and carry the wounded, and not fight the Japanese directly. The elite Central Army under General Xiaozhang would handle the frontline combat.

Perhaps because of this, the new recruits did not appear overly anxious.

But Hu Biao, who knew some history of the Battle of Shanghai, did not believe such reassurances for a moment; he understood that once the fighting stalled, every able-bodied man with a gun would be thrown into the fray.

No one cared if you were a new recruit or an old soldier, or whether you were logistical support.

So as they marched, Hu Biao secretly surveyed the terrain, planning to escape under cover of night—but when night came, he realized how naïve that was…

******

The Third Replacement Company set out from Rugao around nine in the morning.

Except for a short break during lunch to eat rations, the unit marched continuously.

Only near seven in the evening, as dusk fell, did they halt to camp.

Good heavens! They had marched nine hours straight, covering seventy or eighty li—Hu Biao’s first time ever walking such a distance.

When told they could stop, he felt his entire body, especially his soles and calves, go numb and ache as if they belonged to someone else.

He wanted to collapse into the dirt and lie down for a good rest.

Fortunately, the night’s camp was in a town called Baipu, where a large Guan Yu temple occupied one end.

His platoon of around thirty men was settled into a large side room on the left.

The room had no beds but was lined with thick straw and thin quilts, freshly aired and clean, likely quite warm to sleep on.

More importantly, Hu Biao had only eaten some rations at noon and was now ravenous.

In the temple courtyard, several large pots had been set up, steaming with fragrant white rice, a pot of bamboo shoots stewed with old duck, and another of thick slices of fatty pork, all exuding an irresistible aroma.

Whether it was hunger or the natural flavor of food cooked on a wood stove with fresh farm ingredients, the large bowl of steaming rice and dishes was devoured by Hu Biao within minutes, tasting heavenly.

Still feeling unsatisfied, Hu Biao took his empty bowl and brazenly approached the cooks—local villagers—hoping to charm them into giving him another serving, even if just rice with some oil broth.

Unexpectedly, before he could speak, a man in his thirties stirred a ladle and served him another generous bowl of steaming food, even pouring a spoonful of oil broth on top.

While serving, the man chuckled and spoke in the Rugao dialect, which Hu Biao surprisingly understood:

“Boss, eat as much as you want. Make sure you’re full and well-fed, only then will you have the strength to fight the devils for us.”

As the man’s voice fell, an elderly woman beside him added:

“We heard you all are marching to Shanghai to fight the Japanese and will stay tonight in our Baipu. We pooled what we could—a duck from me, some rice from her, a piece of meat from him—and cooked this meal together to show a little kindness from the people of Rugao.”

Hearing their words, Hu Biao suddenly felt his food grow unbearably hot in his mouth, as if he could no longer swallow.

A deserter like him, did he deserve to eat these precious offerings painstakingly gathered by his ancestors?

After dinner, it was still early—not even eight o’clock—but Hu Biao did not bother to wash or freshen up; he lay on the straw and soon snored loudly.

Of course, Hu Biao was exhausted but not truly asleep.

He only closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, still wracked with brief guilt from the meal but resolved to flee during the night once everyone else was asleep.

He didn’t care where he would go, only that he would not follow the Third Replacement Company to that cursed Shanghai battlefield.

His reason remained the same—this war, without him, a mere novice, would still be won eight years later.

“Me, one more or one less, makes no difference,” he told himself repeatedly, convincing himself as he waited.

The wait was long and agonizing.

On one hand, never having walked so far, his body was utterly exhausted—more so than after a night shift at the courier company—and he longed to fall into a deep sleep.

But to maintain the pretense of sleep, he had to summon great willpower to avoid actually nodding off.

On the other hand, while the new recruits lay down to rest, veteran squad leaders and platoon leaders gathered, drinking and eating meat, loudly bantering with lewd stories.

How to describe these bawdy tales? They were truly beyond words.

They spoke of sneaking glances at the white-skinned wives of neighbors bathing, or hiding behind haystacks in the village with a local girl to steal secret kisses.

Both the tellers and listeners were thoroughly engaged, but Hu Biao, a man of the modern age, found these tales far too implausible.

They seemed like fantasies concocted by inexperienced boys, blending rumors with their imaginations.

After all, before his own desertion, Hu Biao had dated three girlfriends, even living with one for over a year—practically married—and had long since learned all there was to know.

As for that girlfriend who insisted on a dowry of at least 300,000 yuan and now married someone else?

He didn’t want to know, nor cared to; he wished her well.

Yet the story that almost broke Hu Biao’s composure was told by the second squad leader, a man with large yellow teeth, who sipped rice wine while spitting and shouting about a humiliating event:

“When I was seventeen, I was known as the most handsome youth for miles around.

One day, for some forgotten reason, I got into a shouting match with Erdan from the same village; you know how in the countryside, insults go straight for the low blows.

I’d just spat out ‘go to your mother’ when I felt someone tugging at my shirt.

I turned and saw Erdan’s mother, an old woman in her sixties; she told me, ‘Come inside.’

Hearing that, I was stunned…”

After a few seconds of confusion, Hu Biao realized what that ‘Come inside’ actually meant.

He was so close to bursting out laughing—almost giving away his act of pretending to sleep.

He struggled mightily to keep it in…

Such was the long night.