War in the Mountains

Wanting, last main link in the new Allied supply chain to China (see above), fell last week after a savage fight for the high ground dominating the town. From that battlefield, TIME Correspondent Theodore H. White cabled:

Here on this mountaintop in the sun is the end of the long campaign. Not even Hollywood could have written it better. The 7,500-ft. mountain over there that the Japs hold is called Huilungshan and it is on the border of China. On the other side is Burma. Chinese soldiers are going to take that mountain and pierce the blockade of China.

The final prebattle conference was held last night. The hills round about were twinkling with the campfires of Chinese troops and in a nipa shack Chinese generals squatted with us about the burning logs, going over their plans.

The Scene Is Set. Now the sun rises from the east behind us in China and throws its glare directly on the Japs on the mountain to the west, blinding them. From our observation post on the hill nearest to Huilungshan, the whole battlefield seems very theatrical, very beautiful.

Men will die on the appointed hour within plain sight (opera glasses permit a closer view of the performers' faces). The guns will sound very loud, but it is just a bit too far off to hear men scream as they get hit or hear them yell "sha sha" ("kill") as Chinese soldiers are supposed to do on the attack.

At 11 o'clock everything is quiet. Chinese troops in grey-blue uniforms are squiggling around in the foreground. Suddenly Major John J. Pakula, American air officer, says: "Okay, they're on their way in." A Chinese officer yells "Yenmutan" ("smoke shell") to his telephonist.

The Curtain Is Up. Artillery pops behind us. A few seconds go by and then, as if teacher were pointing out something on the blackboard with a mile-long pointer, three smoke plumes rise from the crest of Huilungshan.

Now dozens of planes are overhead, P-51s, P-38s, B-25s and P-40s. The first pursuit peels off. The bomb lets go and an orange flash and a grey puff of smoke blossom out. A few seconds later the sound reaches us--whambo--and the air rocks. The others follow in line, one after the other--flash, puff, whambo; flash, puff, whambo--until the last plane turns away.

"Feichi ch'a wan liao" ("The airplanes have finished bombing") an officer reports to the Chinese general. The general orders a ten-minute wait, hoping the Japs will poke their heads out of their dugouts to look for our infantry.

Then the guns open up, concentrating on the crest. For five minutes they hammer and rock the earth. The general calls another break. In 15 minutes he signals again: this time he wants a slow barrage to cover his infantry crawling up the mountain. It comes in a steady drumfire.

Hidden Actors. Chinese and American officers peer through their glasses and telescopes at the forward slopes. They can see nothing. The infantry is deep in the underbrush, bellying its way up over the rocks and ledges. The American officers prod the Chinese general. He assures them that his regiments are moving up.

Hours go by while the officers He tense in the sun. Once a knot of ten or twelve grey-blue figures bursts out of the thickets just above a Japanese pillbox and goes tumbling down atop it with bayonets ready to clear it. The men seem hurried, fast, awkward. About 3 o'clock we make out a long file of Chinese infantrymen crawling along through the undergrowth, still invisible to the enemy, 300 yards above them. Then they, too, disappear.

It is after 4 o'clock by the time the infantry nears the top. The first sign of the charge is the flashing of bayonets in the Japanese wire and then from the trees below the crest Chinese soldiers boil up on all sides. It is a terrifying sight.

We can see the troops running, crouching, chasing each other in on the Japanese defense works. A bazooka fires, flashing at both ends. Machine guns yammer. We can see grenades exploding and the infantry still running, naked and terrible in the sun. It is only slightly more than 100 yards they have to go in the open, and through our telescopes we can see them darting across in ones and twos, leaping into trenches. Everybody in the OP is yelling as they pour in. Some of them drop, spring up again, dash from shattered stump to shattered stump. Then nobody can be seen and Jap mortars blanket the entire position from behind the ridge.

Climax & Aftermath. Suddenly two yellow flares arch out of the smoke. They signal possession. For five minutes there is no movement. The smoke slowly drifts away. Then, one by one, infantrymen begin to appear on the Jap parapets, walking about nonchalantly against the skyline, stretching their arms, folding up wire.

From across the mountain it is possible to smell the victory, clear and sweet. Its odor is different from the odor of defeat in eastern China. It is as different as is the odor of the valley of the Burma Road, full of bananas, pineapples and tropical ferns, from that of the highway to Kweiyang, covered with ice and the stink of death.

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