Clouds above the Hill

A Historical Novel of the Russo-Japanese War, Volume 3

Shiba Ryōtarō, Phyllis Birnbaum, Juliet Winters Carpenter

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2013
• eBook ISBN: 9781134675104
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Regional Studies
• Index: Social Sciences

Clouds above the Hill, a long-time best-selling novel in Japan, is now translated into English for the first time. An epic portrait of Japan in crisis, it combines graphic military history and highly readable fiction to depict an aspiring nation modernizing at breakneck speed. Acclaimed author Shiba Ry?tar? devoted an entire decade of his life to this extraordinary blockbuster, which features Japan's emergence onto the world stage by the early years of the 20th century.

Volume three finds Admiral T?g? continuing his blockade of Port Arthur. Meanwhile, a Japanese land offensive gains control of the high ground overlooking the bay as the Russians at last call for a ceasefire. However, on the banks of the Shaho River, the Japanese lines are stretched, but the Russian General Kuropatkin makes a decision to flank the troops to the left and in doing so encounters Akiyama Yoshifuru's cavalry.

Anyone curious as to how the "tiny, rising nation of Japan" was able to fight so fiercely for its survival should look no further. Clouds above the Hill is an exciting, human portrait of a modernizing nation that goes to war and thereby stakes its very existence on a desperate bid for glory in East Asia.

Part 5

Translated by Juliet Winters Carpenter

1

203-METER HILL

Yet prospects were dim.

The reports that Kodama received from Nogi’s headquarters at Port Arthur invariably brought news of defeat. Of course, Nogi never wrote, “We lost.” Instead, his writing was bureaucratic and embellished, along these lines: “Despite a vigorous assault, the enemy proved stubborn. Our army’s morale is soaring.” Nogi was a first-rate poet, and his prose style wasn’t bad either, but his reports lack the grim reality of battle accounts. Embellishment is unnecessary in reports of fighting and can lead to errors of judgment by the superior command.

After the Russo-Japanese War, the habit of embellishing reports became entrenched in the Japanese Army, although whether that was Nogi’s influence is debatable. Battle reports, like descriptions of ongoing science experiments, require absolute objectivity, but in the wake of this war Japanese military leaders took to sprinkling their reports with the kind of effusive adjectives usually used by poets. Granted, most reports filed by the various army headquarters during the Russo-Japanese War were not on a par with Nogi’s. Kodama scolded Nogi for sending in reports that made objective appraisal of battle conditions difficult.

The absence of phrases like “We captured Fort Such-and-such” gave away that the Third Army was being pummeled by the Russians. Reading between the lines, Kodama’s staff had no trouble deducing that Nogi was losing. Judging by the extent of the damage, moreover, this was no mere setback, but a disastrous drubbing that could lead to the collapse of the entire Japanese Army. The initial assault alone took so many lives that a follow-up assault was difficult, great numbers of men perishing in what Nagaoka Gaishi called “useless slaughter.”

Kodama suddenly stood up. An aide asked in surprise where he was going.

“I’m going to take a piss.”

Kodama set off wearing his cap, but he didn’t go toward the latrine. He went outside—not for any particular reason, but just because on his way he got turned around and ended up out of doors. His behavior was decidedly strange.

The outdoor world was already frozen. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Kodama unbuttoned his fly and began to relieve himself. The harshest period of winter hadn’t yet set in, so the stream did not immediately freeze. Still, the cold was of a dimension far beyond traditional seasonal sensibilities of the Japanese people.

Far in the distance, several soldiers who had just come off guard duty saw Kodama and gave him an “eyes-left” salute, maintaining their grip on their weapons. He was urinating straight in their direction—an unthinkable breach of military etiquette under any circumstances, and certainly an action ill befitting an army general. The soldiers at General Headquarters in Manchuria, however, were well aware of Kodama’s lack of concern for such matters. “There he goes again,” they probably thought. Yet as he relieved himself, his face streamed with tears. The real reason he went outside was undoubtedly his deep, unconscious desire to weep. What drove him from the room was his profound anguish over the soldiers being uselessly slaughtered at Port Arthur.

Back inside, instead of returning to the conference room, Kodama went to his own room and issued the order: “Send for Matsukawa.” Soon Colonel Matsukawa Toshitane hauled his skinny frame into the room and stood before Kodama’s desk.

“I have two Manjusri on my team.” Privately Kodama often praised Matsukawa and Major General Iguchi Shōgo by likening them to the bodhisattva of transcendent wisdom. Though both staff members were indeed outstanding strategists, their approaches differed. Iguchi was cautious and rather inclined to wait things out, Matsukawa active and eager to take the offensive. Kodama relied on these two models, but the two officers found him rather frustrating. Though they presented their views, many times Kodama followed his own line of thinking in the end. Gifted as Iguchi and Matsukawa were, Kodama had a touch of genius and may at times have leaped beyond their plane of thought onto a higher one.

At other times, perhaps because Kodama’s thinking was conversely on a lower plane or because he tacked on various conditions, he reshaped their proposals into a different form. Perhaps “low” is the wrong word, but Kodama blithely ignored the principle that political strategy has no place in military strategy. Military strategy and tactics should be worked out purely for their own sake, the commander’s attention zeroing in on the task at hand. That wasn’t Kodama’s style.

Let me expand a bit. At the time, revolution was in the air inside Russia. Japan’s General Staff Office gave a million yen to Colonel Akashi Motojirō, then in Europe, to fan the flames of revolution. That is an example of political strategy. If a field commander banking on political strategy fails to make strategic decisions or attack when he should, his strategic thinking has become adulterated.

For example, at this point, Matsukawa Toshitane made a forceful argument to Kodama about the need for a second field operation. “Sir, there is no point in sitting around doing nothing like this. Now is the time to renew the attack.”

Kodama refused to take the bait. “I’ll think about it” was as far as he would go. The battle of Shaho was over, but the enemy’s main force in front of them was strong as ever. Matsukawa could not fathom what the general was thinking.

Kodama, meanwhile, knew from a secret wire sent by Yamagata Aritomo that peace talks were in the air (although this was actually Yamagata’s wishful thinking), but he never let on about it to Matsukawa. Kodama wanted to enter on peace talks with the Japanese Army intact, and, if peace talks, the ultimate aim of the war, were on the horizon, then he didn’t want to carry out a needless campaign that would only cost lives.

Kodama could not be purely a military strategist as he was burdened with political concerns of a different dimension, that is, the fate of the nation. He was burdened with Japan itself, a country so small and poor that one individual had no choice but to take on more than one role.

“Matsukawa, you’re not going to like this.” Kodama’s expression was completely lacking its usual cheery vigor. He rubbed the tip of his nose with the back of his hand, rubbing so hard that it turned red. This was the gesture of a boy planning mischief.

“Like what, sir?” Matsukawa spoke cautiously.

Kodama became irritated. “You know exactly what! I’m leaving soon for Port Arthur. Things there are in such a sorry state, the whole Manchurian Army could collapse at any time.”

Everybody knows that—Matsukawa did not go so far as to say this, but his expression gave him away as he nodded. He was opposed to Kodama’s proposed visit. The last time Kodama had left the front to visit Port Arthur as an observer was just before the battle of Shaho. Initial strategy in that battle did not get communicated smoothly, precisely because Kodama, just back from Port Arthur, was distracted. Matsukawa had pointed this out to Kodama directly at the time. For the chief of staff to vacate headquarters was risky, whatever the reason. Then, too, Kuropatkin’s vast army was poised in front of them. For Kodama to turn his back on the northern front and go to the southern front in Port Arthur to observe the assault there was an unpardonable breach of fundamental principles of military command. That’s what Matsukawa thought, and that’s what he said. Where strategy was concerned, he didn’t have the slightest regard for the sensibilities of his superiors.

“Do you intend to repeat the same mistake you made before?”

“What?” Kodama growled.

“If you intend going off as an observer the way you did before,” an undaunted Matsukawa went on, “it’s utterly pointless. If you have a bone to pick with Nogi’s headquarters, why not just issue a summons to his vice chief of staff, Ōba Jirō?”

“There’s no time to waste. If things go on this way, all the troops Nogi holds in his hands will die.”

“That’s still no reason for you to leave your post.”

“The time before, I went as an observer. This time will be different.”

“How so?”

“I’m going there to take command of the Third Army in Nogi’s place.”

Matsukawa was briefly stunned by the momentousness of this revelation. If Kodama meant it, his action would sabotage the chain of command that was the lifeblood of the army.

In any case, Matsukawa Toshitane didn’t want to see Kodama leave. He argued against his going, on the principle of upholding military discipline.

“Matsukawa, you’re wrong!” Kodama yelled, cutting him short. “I don’t need you to lecture me on the importance of maintaining the chain of command. But would you have me protect military discipline at the cost of letting our country collapse? The way Nogi is going”—he broke off in mid-sentence—“he will destroy Japan!” Kodama wanted to yell the words, but friendship with Nogi made him desist. That Nogi’s fecklessness would be his country’s undoing was Kodama’s greatest fear.

Matsukawa made a good point. Although Kodama held the rank of general and was chief of staff of the Manchurian Army, he was merely a member of Commander in Chief Ōyama Iwao’s staff. Nogi Maresuke, on the other hand, had been granted command of the Third Army by the emperor, the ultimate and supreme authority. What if Kodama were to cancel or limit Nogi’s authority and then do with the Third Army as he pleased? Military order would collapse. It would be as if Nagaoka Gaishi from Imperial Headquarters in Tokyo came along and told Ōyama, “Move over, I’m taking charge.” Yet out of his near-certain conviction that allowing Nogi to carry on in Port Arthur would spell Japan’s defeat, Kodama took the position that this extreme measure was unavoidable.

It was a difficult situation. Subverting the chain of command is in a sense the greatest offense possible in the military. Kodama was prepared to face the consequences, including a court-martial if need be. Let them do their worst. Matsukawa suggested sending someone else, but Kodama was adamant. He and only he could go.

Political considerations were involved. If Kodama had been from Satsuma, or anywhere else but Chōshū, the plan would have been impracticable. Nogi would not have cooperated, and Kodama’s aggressiveness would have had grave repercussions on the two men’s relationship. But Nogi and he were members of the same powerful Chōshū clique. They had maintained close ties ever since the Restoration and knew one another inside and out. Nogi would not be devastated if replaced by Kodama, of that much Kodama was certain.

“No, there’s no one but me who can go. If you went, Matsukawa, he’d rip you to pieces.”

“Very well, sir.” Matsukawa spoke earnestly. “But as long as you do go, I recommend you take along a handwritten letter from the commander in chief.” That way, Kodama’s action would be within the boundaries of the law—barely.

Kodama decided to call at Ōyama’s quarters.

When discussions were underway to choose a commander in chief before the troops left for Manchuria, Kodama had argued strongly for Ōyama: “Toad is someone I can work under.” The nickname “Toad” was presumably based on Ōyama’s appearance.

At the time, Yamagata Aritomo had wanted the job of commander in chief. However, as we have seen, even though Kodama was on familiar terms with Yamagata, the head of the Chōshū clique (they called each other “old man Yamagata” and “old man Kodama”), he had rejected his candidacy, declaring Yamagata impossibly hard to work under. In the end, Kodama’s plan won out. He came to Manchuria with Ōyama Iwao of Satsuma as commander in chief.

From the late years of the Tokugawa period through the first decade of Meiji, Ōyama was regarded as a fount of wisdom, but as he took charge of others he gradually acquired the habits of self-effacement and thoroughgoing detachment. Admiral Tōgō Heihachirō also shared these traits, which suggests that men of Satsuma shared a traditional view of the proper way for a supreme commander to conduct himself.

Just recently at the battle of Shaho, when there had been one bout after another of fierce fighting with no prospect of victory and the headquarters staff was in a state of bedlam, Ōyama woke up after an afternoon nap, poked his head into the room, and addressed Kodama. “More fighting going on somewhere today?” Those present were dumbstruck. This brief query had an immediate calming effect, raising spirits and quieting hysteria.

I would like to touch further on this aspect of Ōyama’s personality. Back when he was still army minister, serving under him were Kodama Gentarō, Kawakami Sōroku, and Katsura Taro. Each of them loved to argue, and meetings would be filled with long altercations that had no hope of resolution. Ōyama would sit calmly observing, saying nothing, until eventually he seized his chance. Leaning forward, he would without further ado pass judgment on the spot. “You do this. You do that,” he would order, looking at each person and giving appropriate instructions. His pronouncements were so on the mark that those who would happily have gone on arguing all day, given half a chance, were silenced.

Just a few months earlier, after the battle of Liaoyang, the Qing general Yuan Shikai had sent his subordinate Duan Zhigui to General Headquarters of the Japanese Manchurian Army with items like blankets, milk, and champagne. Ōyama invited Duan—who was at the time something like Yuan’s executive secretary—to lunch.

“You know, Duan, it’s best when people know nothing at all.” As Ōyama suddenly made this remark over lunch, Duan shot him a suspicious look, but Ōyama was perfectly serious. “Take me. I’m a complete ignoramus. It’s exactly because I don’t know anything about anything that I got to be chief of the General Staff, and army minister, and superintendent of police, and, even more shamelessly, minister of education. Not knowing anything makes me equally suited for all posts. I am truly a valuable sort of man.”

For t...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
• CHRONOLOGY OF MAJOR EVENTS
• A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
• MAPS
• Part 5, translated by Juliet Winters Carpenter
• Part 6, translated by Juliet Winters Carpenter
• Glossary