Naked City

It was 3:30 in the morning after the great Communist offensive began. From positions around doomed Nanking, Nationalist artillery still fired an occasional shot toward Communist positions on the Yangtze's north bank. Retreating Nationalist soldiers poured back across the river in tugboats and barges. In the yellow glare of the capital's bare electric street lights, they shuffled toward the railway station. The trains they hoped to take to the south never came. A soldier guarding a ferry building watched the routed men and said: "They have been coming back all night. I don't know what's going on, but I'm scared."

Nationalist leaders said: "We will fight to the bitter end . . . Nanking will hold out for six months." But they knew they could not keep these brave promises; the bitter end was at hand.

At dawn, Acting President Li Tsung-jen, together with Premier Ho Ying-chin and Nanking's garrison commander, sped to the city airport. Soldiers put them aboard waiting planes, hastily jumped in after them and slammed the doors. Behind them, Nanking lay waiting for the conquerors.

Sun in the Morning. Cabled TIME Correspondent Robert Doyle:

"The police had disappeared from Nanking's streets; many had put on civilian clothes. A wave of looting swept the city. A mob swarmed up the long, fir-tree-lined driveway to President Li's grey brick home. A ragged boy shoved a porcelain sink through a smashed door panel to three of his friends outside. Li's housekeeper helped the looters take out scrolls and furniture, explained: 'The sooner they clean out the place the better. Then I will have peace.'

"The flower beds of Mayor Peng Chieh's spacious gardens were littered with bits of wood, plaster and broken glass. A man wrestled with a steam radiator, trying to get it on his shoulder. A coolie, stripped bare to the waist, grinned: 'I didn't like the mayor, anyway.'

"At a food shop, coolies carrying fat white sacks bulldozed their way through the crowd, their sweaty faces caked with flour dust. One man, who was emptyhanded, jumped onto the back of a little fellow lugging a full sack. They rolled together in the gutter. When an American photographer started to take a picture, a white-faced Chinese cried out: 'No, no. You must not. This is a disgrace.'

Slowdown by Noon. "On broad, dusty Chungshan Lu, Nanking's main street, a pretty Chinese girl, trim in a white sweater, cycled by, said good-morning in perfect English, and serenely rode on.

"By noon, the pace of the looting had slowed. Most people went stolidly about their business. Vegetable hawkers shouted their wares. In the distance, occasional pistol shots sounded. At the river bank, two black columns of smoke from burning docks rose into the sunny, hazy sky."

Songs After Dawn. Through the day, Communist agents in Nanking came out from underground, posted signs welcoming the Red army, and prepared the Communist takeover. Before dawn of the next day, 20,000 troops of General Chen Yi's third field army marched into the city through the northwest gate. Country boys from Manchuria stared in open wonder at Nanking's big modern government buildings, all of which were occupied in short order. University students gathered to sing patriotic songs in welcome.

Foreigners generally were not yet disturbed. One notable exception was U.S. Ambassador J. Leighton Stuart. Three Communist soldiers brushed aside the Embassy's gateman, tramped into the ambassador's bedroom, awakened him rudely, prowled around, then left.

In the streets and squares of Nanking, the Communists were orderly. They sang or listened to harangues from their officers. They looked no different from their Nationalist brothers, except that they were fresher, more soldierly.

The people of Nanking grouped around them and, with unaffected curiosity, stared at the invaders from the north.

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