Ruins, Death, and Harrowing Tales
废墟、死亡和残酷的故事
By Wang Dingjun (王鼎钧)
▲Author of This Text: Mr. Wang Dingjun (王鼎钧)
【Editor’s Note: Wang Dingjun’s memoir Yesterday’s Clouds captures the harrowing realities of war and survival during World War II, focusing on his experiences in Suqian. As Japanese bombers devastated the city, Wang recounts moments of terror, resilience, and cruelty. Seeking refuge in a church, he observes how its tin roof, painted with the American flag, becomes a conspicuous target. The psychological toll of bombings leaves Wang unable to distinguish between life and death, as he vividly describes the disarray of rubble, the hunt for missing limbs, and the surreal persistence of daily rituals amidst destruction.
The memoir also highlights human greed and moral decay during wartime. Upon returning to his family home in Lanling, Wang finds cypress groves felled, houses plundered, and his courtyard uprooted in search of buried valuables. Through poignant anecdotes, including the defiant resistance of refugees against a drunken Japanese soldier, Wang explores themes of loss, courage, and the enduring scars of war.
Wang’s “Four-Volume Memoir” stands as a powerful testimony to twentieth-century Chinese history, offering profound reflections on human nature. His writing, hailed for its eloquence and depth, immortalizes the collective experience of a generation caught in the chaos of war and upheaval.】
I no longer recall how long I stayed in Suqian (宿迁). Suqian, Suqian—how many nights passed before we finally moved on?
All I remember is that, upon arriving at the Suqian church, I collapsed onto the floor and slept for two full days, getting up only occasionally for a sip of water. During those two days, I was practically living like an immortal, relieved from supporting my own weight and no longer resisting gravity. Every muscle and joint from neck to toe was on holiday. On that small patch of clean ground, I felt I’d reached a great concord—a heaven on earth. No wonder people say, “Nothing tastes better than dumplings; nothing feels better than lying down.” I imagine it was some exhausted farmhand, finally set free after a day of backbreaking labor, who coined that saying.
We seldom reflect on the food in our bowls and the toil behind every grain of rice—now I finally understood. That was my first two days.
▌Air-Raid Alert: “A City on a Hill Cannot Be Hidden”
My mother’s favorite Gospel was the Gospel of Matthew (马太福音). She called it the crowning work among the Four Gospels.
She told me, “You’re living in God’s house, so you must read a passage from the Bible every day.” She taught me to read chapter five of Matthew:
You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men. You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good deeds.
Just then, the warning sounded—a pre-alert for an air raid. Japanese planes were coming.
Back then, in small towns, air-raid warnings were delivered by someone walking the streets, banging a gong. In more prominent places like Suqian, a strong-armed person would crank a well-winch-like device. Once the handle turned fast enough, it generated electricity, and the siren blared in a deep wail.
Apart from the siren’s ear-splitting howl, there was also a system of “warning spheres” set up in visible locations: one sphere for a pre-alert, two for an imminent threat, and three for the all-clear.
At the sound of the pre-alert, I ran outside the main door and looked up at the sky. I saw no sphere, only an angry adult hauling me back in.
The church housed many people, and everyone hurried into the sanctuary, treating that big, lofty building like an air-raid shelter. Yet a proper shelter ought to be underground. “A city on a hill cannot be hidden”—that big cathedral was just too obvious a target. A city on a hill is not always a blessing.
Those seeking refuge got on their knees and prayed the moment they entered. When they finished, the enemy’s planes still hadn’t arrived, and no air-raid siren had followed. So they prayed again. The sky remained calm, and some went home.
Behind the pulpit was a mezzanine, similar to the backstage area of a theater, accessible by ladder. I didn’t go home; instead, I crept up quietly to peek through a window overlooking the roof. Much to my surprise, the entire roof was covered in tin, painted to form a giant American flag. Under the bright sun, it stood out vividly, practically filling my field of vision with dazzling reds and blues—enough to make me dizzy.
Presumably, that flag was there for the Japanese pilots to see. They would see it, no doubt. Indeed, a city can still be built on a hill.
That was the third day.
▲Suqian Jesus Church (宿迁耶稣堂)
▌The Great Bombing: Little Difference Between Being Alive and Being Dead
The days that followed now blur together. Perhaps on the seventh day, I no longer had my daily Bible reading assignments—I spent all my time scheming how to slip outside without any real destination in mind. There must have been some historical sites worth exploring, but I made no effort to find them.
If I had managed to wander outside that afternoon, who knows what might have happened. Luckily, I never got the chance.
Shortly after lunch, the siren went off. Again, we hurried into the cathedral, crouching under the pews, which were nailed to the concrete floor. We couldn’t move them, so we stayed low beneath them.
This time, we heard the shriek of planes in a dive, releasing bombs. Their engines changed pitch, wailing as if in pain, followed by tremors that made the ground quake. It felt as though the cathedral were a tiny rowboat, its stern popping up.
We also heard anti-aircraft fire. Artillery shells and bombs make different sounds, but artillery doesn’t shake the ground.
In those days, a bomber typically carried two bombs under its wings, each loaded with yellowish explosives of lesser potency. To destroy an entire city, they needed many sorties, wave after wave of planes in rotation. Huddled inside the cathedral, we heard the planes come and go, bombs exploding with thunderous roars. Nearby buildings collapsed in chaos, then everything fell silent—but we knew it wasn’t over. Another wave would soon follow.
In that gap between bombing runs, the tension was overwhelming. Yes, you’d survived the first round, but there was no telling whether you’d survive the next, with a thin thread suspending the sword above your head. At that point, I felt nothing at all. There was scarcely any difference between living and being dead.
▲Footage of Japanese Air Raids on Suqian (日军轰炸宿迁时的影像)
▌Ruins, Death, and Stories of Cruelty
When the all-clear finally sounded, we walked out of the church to find the sunlight a deep golden hue. The bombing had started after lunch and lasted until early evening—it was brutal.
That day’s bombing left me utterly terrified; I dared not set foot beyond the main door again. For years afterward, the mere sound of a car engine sent me reeling in panic. After the massive air raid, life became a shapeless blur. Daylight and darkness merged into one.
What stuck with me were the fragmented pieces of news that trickled in.
Some people had gone missing. A policeman recounted how he was on street patrol when the raid began. An enemy plane was already overhead, and he spotted someone still walking on the street. By regulation, once the alarm sounded, all pedestrians had to halt. But if a person insisted on moving forward, he might lie to the civil defense guard: “My house is right over there,” and slip past the blockade.
Why, in such a dire moment, would anyone risk walking the streets? No one could say. Perhaps, in those days, people enjoyed flaunting their cleverness by bending the rules.
According to the policeman, he couldn’t stop that man—he himself had to take cover and could only watch, helpless and anxious. Suddenly, the ground split open, spewing fire and dust, and the person vanished without a trace. The policeman thought he’d glimpsed a ghost in broad daylight.
Many families now had to arrange funerals, scouring the area for coffins and burial sites. One man searched everywhere for a missing leg—his father’s leg. His father had died in the bombing, and one leg was unaccounted for. The grieving son hoped to find it for a proper burial.
During the raid, there were two friends absorbed in a game of chess when bombs fell on both sides of their house. The chessboard and pieces flew in every direction. Dazed, the two players stared at their crooked table.
When the all-clear sounded, they collected the scattered pieces, reconstructed the position as best they could, and attempted to finish the match—until the house suddenly collapsed. It was as though the heavens were playing a prank.
That air raid on Suqian killed many people. The ordinary, uneventful deaths vanished into silence as the bereaved families choked back their grief. Only those with some dramatic twist—those that stirred the imagination—circulated beyond the church courtyard. After further winnowing, perhaps one in a hundred would find its way into street-corner chatter and, from there, one in a thousand into the ballads of fishermen and woodcutters, ultimately becoming lore.
Stories survive and spread not because the victims need remembrance nor even because the war requires such tales. They persist because listeners are captivated. It’s best not to reflect too deeply on that, for you’ll only discover how cruel it all is. Here, I note a few grim stories that might be recounted over tea or wine but leave out the countless families whose tragedies rend the heart.
▲Aftermath of Japanese Bombing in Changsha (长沙), Neighborhoods Ablaze
▌Rubble, Craters, and Those Who Survived
Suddenly, Eldest Wei (魏家老大) arrived—our joy was indescribable.
The Wei family had fled with us but split up along the way over some disagreement. The older brother went north with his family, while the younger one helped escort us south. Our luggage, too, had been split into two bundles, one carried by the older brother for safekeeping.
His sudden appearance gave us all a sense of reunion after catastrophe. Though he frowned over the fact that we had led his younger brother straight into Suqian’s bombardment, he had his own troubles to tell: the bundle he had been carrying was stolen by bandits along the road. Even so, despite his gloomy demeanor, we were delighted to see him.
He also brought two pieces of good news. First, the Battle of Taierzhuang (台儿庄会战) was over, and Lanling (兰陵) was now behind the lines so that we could return home. Second, once back, the Wei family would pick an auspicious date for the younger brother’s wedding.
Setting out from Suqian, we finally caught a glimpse of the rubble left by the bombing. Each mound of debris had once been a family’s lifetime—or generations’ worth—of love and sweat. Shattered roof tiles were true refuse, not even worthy of being called garbage. After a few days of cleanup, no bodies remained buried, though traces of blood might linger. I saw dogs sniffing around.
Households that had offended no one or provoked nobody were simply destroyed. The pilots, perched in their planes, likely never laid eyes on the craters they left behind. No wonder those men remained dashing and immaculate.
In truth, there weren’t that many rubble-strewn sites. During the raid, it felt like the entire world had been wiped out. Yet, in reality, Suqian was merely a bedsheet stained in splotches of ink. I almost wished I could point it out to the pilots to show them their bombardment wasn’t quite so all-powerful.
The morning sun was already high, its rays gradually growing stronger. I felt a twinge of reluctance to leave Suqian, the first window through which I had glimpsed the world’s complexity.
Under that bright sun, the townspeople of Suqian shuffled by me one after another; their faces hardened with a kind of unflinching resolve.
▲An Elder and a Child Wounded in the Bombing During the Battle of Songhu (淞沪会战)
▌The License of Japanese Soldiers and the Refugees’ Resistance at the Church
On the way home, we followed Old Wei’s advice, leaving Suqian via Donghai (东海), then heading to Tancheng (郯城) and finally reaching Nanqiao (南桥).
These names were familiar even from childhood: the ancient Donghai Commandery, later Haizhou, now Donghai County in Jiangsu; the ancient State of Tan (郯国), home of Master Tan, where Master Zeng (曾子) taught, and setting for the classical tragedy The Injustice to Dou E that Moved Heaven and Earth. Today, it is Tancheng County, Shandong Province.
We traveled by back roads, never seeing the county seats of Donghai or Tancheng. All I remember is field after field of wheat.
At night, we sheltered in small villages, sleeping in the open streets. The adults took turns keeping watch. Everywhere we went was eerily quiet—like a vacuum—yet the crops were thriving. It was hard to believe people lived there at all.
This homeward journey felt surprisingly peaceful. The two Wei brothers took turns carrying our luggage, handing my infant brother back and forth. We stopped whenever we liked, which allowed my mother to keep pace. Although the hush of the postwar countryside weighed upon us, the road itself felt calm.
During breaks, Old Wei told stories of recent events back home, including those in the churches of Linyi (临沂).
Starting on March 13, Nationalist and Japanese forces had fought around Linyi for fifty days. Finally, the city was besieged, assaulted, and ravaged by street fighting. The soldiers practically wrestled each other to the ground. The wounded, unable to be moved, were all sent to an American mission hospital. The doctors and nurses from the Linyi Hospital went there, too.
When the Japanese entered the city, they killed indiscriminately. They walked down the streets, banging on doors. Anyone who opened a door was bayoneted on the spot. Almost every doorframe and threshold on that street was stained with blood. They demanded that the church hand over the wounded, but the church refused. Yet those wounded couldn’t hide inside forever—how would it all end?
Old Wei then mentioned the church in Yixian (峄县), located west of Lanling, just fifty li away. Two cities greatly influenced Lanling: Yixian and Linyi.
The Japanese army arrived in Yixian first, then Lanling. At the church in Yixian’s southern suburb, many refugees had gathered. One day, a drunken Japanese soldier showed up at the church gates wielding his bayonet.
The courtyard was packed. Someone stood to open the gate. The Japanese soldier stabbed him on the spot, then rushed in and killed an elderly man, shouting, “Get me a pretty girl” (花姑娘的有)—we knew he was looking for prostitutes. Panicked, no one dared answer, so the soldier stabbed an old woman next.
A courtyard full of refugees naturally included strong young men. Watching the soldier kill one person after another, their eyes turned red with rage. They ran to the kitchen, grabbed firewood, and charged him all at once, beating him to death.
Of course, that was no small matter. Would the Japanese just let it go?
They conducted an investigation at the church and finally admitted their own wrongdoing.
I breathed a sigh of relief. But Old Wei said, “The church compound is barely the size of a hand—you can’t hide many people inside. And sometimes, it takes the guts of the Chinese to fight to the death, to settle it once and for all!”
▲A French Catholic-run Refugee Shelter in Xuzhou (徐州) During the War
▌Destruction Not Only by the Enemy but by the Greedy Among Us
I was not prepared for what awaited me at home.
Outside Lanling, rows of towering cypress trees once stood in neat formations—a majestic, solemn forest. Centuries ago, the Wang family of Lanling (兰陵王氏) had grown prominent around the late Ming and early Qing, tending ancestral tombs. These cypress groves were like ancient parasols—a symbol of ancestors’ protective shade.
After the war, those trees were all gone—cut cleanly at waist height, leaving only stumps. Whoever had done the cutting saved themselves effort by not sawing at ground level. War came and went, and hordes of poor villagers trailed in the army’s wake, swiftly seizing or hauling away anything of value. Overnight, the whole landscape had changed.
Trees don’t bleed; they emit a sweet pine scent. Even days later, the aroma clung to the dusty air. A once-sacred forest, beyond the touch of ordinary people—yet here we were. Such tragedies were now commonplace.
Upon returning home, we found no main gate, no inner gate, no doors or door frames, no window frames, tables, or chairs—nothing wooden remained. Our house was wide open, with no security or boundaries, and there was no trace of a private dwelling anymore.
Houses back then typically featured a sturdy crossbeam above the door, known as the “mei” (楣). It was customarily made of fine timber. If you built a splendid home, it was said you were “polishing the door beam.” When someone fell upon misfortune, it was called “倒楣” (literally “a fallen door beam”). Such was the significance of the mei. Now, in every room of our house, those beams were gone! Judging by the ragged holes left in the walls, someone strong had pried them out with a pickaxe or something similar. Each door or window opening became a gaping mouth of jagged bricks.
Then there was the courtyard.
We once had a date tree in our yard, and I used to recite, “In my yard, there are two trees. One is a date tree, and the other is a date tree.” I had gazed up through its sparse, unyielding branches at that strange, lofty autumn sky.
We also had two pomegranate trees. Beneath them, I learned that “pomegranate blooms in May are bright as flames,” counting stamens—male and female—and guessing how many fruits would form.
When we returned after the war, we found neither a date tree nor a pomegranate. Someone had turned over the soil in our yard as though preparing to plant vegetables.
Those same looters, from villages near and far, had swept through the homes of anyone with money—or anyone who had ever had money—probing every inch of ground inside and out. They would strike the earth with a wooden pole, listening for hollow echoes that might reveal hidden valuables. Then, they would dig on the spot.
If the family’s buried hoard was small—maybe jewelry in a glass jar—there was another technique: turning the soil as a farmer would, looking for a change in color. If the yard was large, they might bring in oxen and a plow to churn up the dirt, hoping some treasure might pop out.
My courtyard looked as if someone had literally plowed it. The phrase “plow the courtyard and sweep the chambers” sprang to mind…
And so, I first realized how class struggle could be more than a mere idea.
That morning, my little brother was excited to hear we were going home. Even at his age, he must have remembered something of our old house. Standing in our courtyard, he asked repeatedly, “What is this place? Whose home is it?”
Mother turned to me, saying, “This time, our family is truly broke!”
But then she declared with renewed vigor, “Still, for Younger Wei’s wedding, I’ll give a lavish gift—so generous that no one can say a word!”
Excerpted from Chapter Eight of Yesterday’s Clouds (昨天的云) by Wang Dingjun (王鼎钧).
Wang Dingjun’s “Four-Volume Memoir” (王鼎钧“回忆录四部曲”) is a sweeping work that illuminates a century of Chinese history in the twentieth century, no easy feat to document. Yet Wang’s style—he was hailed in Taiwan as a key figure in the “rising crest” of Chinese essayists—imparts grand vision and depth, making these volumes highly sought after.
Having lived through the numerous conflicts of the 1940s, Wang bore witness to humanity at its most terrifying and vile. One could say he tasted every sorrow in the world, yet he grasped both life and human nature in their fullness. He does not negate either; his commitment to purity is unwavering but never naïve—a mark of true wisdom.
He also experienced firsthand the hardships of long journeys in that era: the Liaoshen Campaign (辽沈战役), the Pingjin Campaign (平津战役), captivity in Tianjin (天津), the prisoner-of-war camp’s training, a trek along the entire Jiaoji Railway (胶济铁路) to Qingdao (青岛), and finally an escape overseas from Shanghai (上海). At every turn, crises and confrontations abounded, each moment fraught with challenge and surprise. The scenes still resonate powerfully today.
Wang Dingjun once said, “I’m not that important. I merely hope that, through my own experiences, I can reflect the existence of an entire generation. I want my readers to understand and care about that era—it was the most important collective experience of the Chinese people.”
For this reason, the Xianzhi Bookstore (先知书店) strongly recommends the Wang Dingjun Memoirs (王鼎钧回忆录), a series that charts the entangled destinies and life-or-death struggles of twentieth-century Chinese. It captures, like nowhere else, Wang’s profound life philosophy. Press and hold the image below to scan the QR code and add this collection to your library with a single click:
This translation is an independent yet well-intentioned effort by the China Thought Express editorial team to bridge ideas between the Chinese and English-speaking worlds. The original text is available here:
Cangshan Night Whisper (苍山夜语)December 28, 2024
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