Instead of trying to conserve the strength of the Red Army, Mao insisted that Kuo-tao must face the same evil conditions — after him. Having fired off his menacing ultimatum, Mao floated into the swamps on his litter, sacrificing a huge pile of books, including the complete set of his favorite
A deceptive green cover hid a black vicious swamp, which sucked in anyone who broke through the thin crust or strayed from the narrow path … We drove native cattle or horses before us which instinctively found the least dangerous way. Grey clouds almost always hung just over the ground. Cold rain fell several times a day, at night it turned to wet snow or sleet. There was not a dwelling, tree, or shrub as far as the eye could see. We slept in squatted positions on the small hills which rose over the moor. Thin blankets, large straw hats, oil-paper umbrellas or, in some cases, stolen capes, were our only protection. Some did not awaken in the morning, victims of cold and exhaustion. And this was the middle of August!.. Outbreaks of bloody dysentery and typhus … again won the upper hand.
Another Long Marcher remembered: “I once saw several men under a blanket and thought they were stragglers. So I tried to rouse them.” The men were dead. There was little to eat: “When a horse died, we ate it: the troops at the front ate the meat, the ones at the back gnawed the bones. When everything ran out, we ate the roots of grass, and chewed leather belts.”
Mrs. Lo Fu saw the corpses of friends all the time … On the sixth day, I got dysentery. I couldn’t worry about embarrassment and just squatted down and shat all the time. Then I would tie my trousers and rush to catch up. I spent two days like this, and gritted my teeth to get through. For seven days and nights, it was a world of no human beings. On the eighth day, when I walked out of the swamp and saw villages, people, cattle, and smoke coming out of chimneys, when I saw turnips in the fields, my happiness was beyond words … Those seven days and nights were the hardest time in the Long March. When I arrived in Banyou, I felt as if I had just returned to the human world from the world of death.
A night at Banyou, in a hut made of dried yak droppings plastered over wicker, able to dry one’s clothes by a bonfire of the all-purpose dung, was the lap of luxury for those who survived. In Lin Biao’s corps alone, 400 had died — some 15 percent of its complement.
This was the ordeal that Mao was demanding that Kuo-tao’s tens of thousands of troops should go through, instead of marching along proper roads on the route first assigned. Invoking the name of the Politburo, Mao kept piling on the pressure, urging Kuo-tao to “move fast to Banyou.” In one cable written after he had emerged from the swampland and knew full well what it was like, Mao lied through his teeth: “From Maoergai [where he had started] to Banyou, it is short in distance and plentiful in shelter.” He then advised Kuo-tao: “Suggest you … bring all the wounded and sick who can manage to walk, plus the matériel and equipment …” On the surface, this seemed to be telling Kuo-tao: Don’t abandon your wounded, but its real intention was to cause maximum suffering.
If Kuo-tao refused to obey, Mao could get him formally condemned and removed from command. Reluctantly, Kuo-tao agreed to come to Mao, and directed his huge army into the swampland. A couple of days’ taste of what lay ahead made him even less keen than before. On 2 September his force reached a river in spate. He cabled Mao: “We have reconnoitred 30
A day later, he decided to go no further. “Have reconnoitred 70