The River. Foreword

From the archives of the Shenbao newspaper, Shanghai. December, 1946.

A COURTROOM WHERE NOT MEN, BUT WAR ITSELF IS ON TRIAL

A report by our special correspondent Liu Feng from the Nanjing War Crimes Tribunal.

Nanjing, December 4.  —  In the hall of the former Ministry of Communications, where justice is meted out today, the air is still and heavy, like an unshed tear. Here, under the scrutinizing gaze of the judges and the silent eye of history, the final act of the tragedy named Nanjing unfolds. In the dock sit generals and officers whose names, until recently, inspired terror. But today, our attention is drawn not to them, but to those appearing as witnesses — the ordinary soldiers by whose hands these atrocities were committed.

The prosecutors read aloud lists of victims, exhibit photographs, present the testimonies of survivors. The numbers strike like a judge’s gavel. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. But when the accused take the stand, their voices hold neither remorse nor malice. Only fatigue and bewilderment. Their testimonies, monotonous, devoid of emotion, merge into a single, faceless voice. The voice of war.

The prosecutor asks questions. Dry, procedural. The answers are the same.

Private First Class Takeo Kenji: “The order was to eliminate anyone offering resistance. But who was offering resistance? How do you distinguish a soldier from a peasant? They told us they were all partisans. We simply did as we were ordered… Yes, we entered houses. We were starving. We hadn’t been fed in weeks. Sometimes we would find a sack of rice, sometimes a chicken. That was happiness. We didn’t think about the people. We thought about food.”

Sergeant Watanabe Goro: “We were taught that the Chinese were not quite human. That they were beneath us. They showed us films where they tortured our POWs. We believed it… When you see your comrade killed, something breaks inside. You cease to feel pity. Pity is a luxury. We were young. We drank a lot of sake whenever we could find it. When you are drunk, everything seems simpler. You don’t think. You just act.”

Second Lieutenant Suzuki Kentaro: “Discipline is the foundation of the army. We were taught: the commander’s order is the will of the Emperor. To doubt an order is to doubt the Emperor. That was unthinkable. When Major Hashimoto ordered the district by the river cleared… I relayed the order. What else was I supposed to do?”

Private Tanaka Jiro: “The cold was terrifying. We had no winter uniforms. We burned whatever would catch fire — furniture, doors, books. Once, we found a coal depot, thought we got lucky. But there were people hiding inside. Women with children. The sergeant said… he said the coal was more important. That without heat we would freeze, and the Emperor has no need for dead soldiers.”

Second Lieutenant Yamaguchi Shigeru: “I am a soldier of the Emperor. My duty is to execute orders. I was ordered to carry out the execution of a group of prisoners at the Zhonghua Gate. I carried it out. It was my job. Just like cleaning my rifle or marching on the parade ground. Did I feel anything? I felt exhaustion. And I wanted it all to be over as soon as possible.”

Sergeant Nakamura Yoshio: “War is war. We weren’t sent on a parade. The Chinese killed our men in Tongzhou; we remembered that. Every house could be a trap. Every resident a partisan. Yes, there were excesses. But show me a war without excesses.”

When the prosecutor asks about specific orders, Nakamura replies:
“The orders were clear: suppress resistance, establish control, ensure the security of our units. How to achieve this was decided on the spot. I am a soldier, not a philosopher.”

Corporal Hiroto Takamuro: “We were following orders. The order stated: eliminate all prisoners. And so we eliminated them. There were too many of them to feed. We didn’t even have enough rations for ourselves.”

“We were following orders.” This phrase echoes here more often than the strike of the judge’s gavel. It has become their shield, their justification, their sole reality. They speak of mass executions as though discussing the weeding of a rice paddy.

One of the lieutenants, testifying against his commander, Prince Asaka, let slip a phrase that sent a chill through the room:
“We were told the Chinese were not quite human. That they were cowardly, deceitful, and placed no value on their own lives. That killing them was almost like killing an animal. At first, it was strange. But then… then you get used to it. You stop seeing the difference.”

“You get used to it.” Here, this phrase is the key to everything. They grew used to the sight of blood. Grew used to the stench of death. Grew used to their own fear and to the pain of others. War became their norm, while peaceful life turned into a distant, almost forgotten dream.

They sit before the tribunal, these “ordinary soldiers,” and in their eyes there is a void. They are not villains from ancient legends. They are cogs in a vast, soulless machine that first stripped them of their humanity, and then forced them to strip it from others. And looking at their calm, exhausted faces, one cannot help but ask: who is truly on trial in this room? These men? Or the ideology, the orders, the war that forged them into what they have become?

The judges and prosecutors listen, take notes, ask questions. But the answers are always the same: “I was just a soldier.” “I was following orders.” “I don’t remember.”

To be continued.

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