Read an Excerpt

Women Heroes of World War II â" The Pacific Theater

15 Stories of Resistance, Rescue, Sabotage, and Survival

Chicago Review Press Incorporated

PEGGY HULL

In a War Zone

AMERICAN REPORTER PEGGY Hull was in the midst of a war zone. The lines of this brief battle between Japan and China were not clear: the armies fought wherever and whenever they met, and "the hapless civilian who was caught between them," Peggy wrote, "could expect the fate of a soldier."

Peggy and Sasha, her hired Russian driver, were on their way to interview a Chinese general. As they drove toward his headquarters, they were suddenly trapped: the Chinese were retreating. The Japanese were advancing. Shells were flying toward Peggy and Sasha from both directions as their car raced along a bumpy road.

They noticed a small structure in a nearby field. They abandoned the car and ran to it.

Inside was a coffin and not much else, just the smell of gunfire. Peggy and Sasha tried to catch their breath. Their only hope was that the approaching Japanese had not seen them. Then, suddenly, another danger appeared, one that was more immediately life-threatening than the exploding shells shaking the walls of the tiny tomb. Would Peggy's life end in a war zone?

She was already an experienced combat reporter. When Mexican bandit-turned-revolutionary Pancho Villa made violent raids near the border of Mexico and the United States, Peggy traveled with US National Guard troops sent to capture him. During World War I, Peggy reported on an American artillery training camp in France. And when Entente troops were sent to support the White Russians during the Siberian Intervention of the Russian Civil War, Peggy went along.

However, she hadn't come to China in 1932 to report on war. She claimed she was now willing to leave that topic to male reporters. Instead, she planned to write articles about Chinese women for female American readers.

But on January 28, 1932, Shanghai, China's large port city, was suddenly a battle zone. Several Japanese monks had been beaten in the streets by Chinese citizens who were angered over the recent Japanese invasion of Manchuria. A Japanese factory was burned down. The Japanese navy, eager to prove itself as battle-worthy as the army had in Manchuria, brought fighting men ashore in Shanghai. A Japanese admiral named Koichi Shiozawa demanded a formal apology and compensation from Chinese Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek. Chiang offered a public compromise but privately encouraged his army to fight back. What followed would become known as the Shanghai Incident, the January 28 Incident, or the First Battle of Shanghai.

The New York Daily News didn't have a reporter in Shanghai. Peggy was nearby. "Go to work," the editor cabled her. "You're our correspondent."

She found someone with their own shortwave radio who could quickly transmit her stories to the United States. Then Peggy located an observation post on the top of a flour mill. It was dangerous but she could see the battle.

On January 29, 1932, she witnessed the first major Japanese assault:

In company with other Americans I stood on the roof of the tallest building in the international settlement for three hours watching the planes drop their bombs. With the others I saw the resultant flames destroy hundreds of tenement homes in Chapei, where dwell close to 1,000,000 Chinese laborers. The tenements crumbled like pie crusts and the ruins burst into flames as the terrified Chinese fled into the narrow streets, running in packs like bewildered animals. Thousands huddled in the debris. It was a frightful scene of human misery.

Because the United States was neutral, Peggy was free to move between Chinese and Japanese military bases. She was even invited to have dinner with a Japanese commander stationed in Shanghai, Admiral Nomura Kichisaburo.

During the dinner, Admiral Nomura annoyed Peggy when he claimed American men couldn't fight. She was even more annoyed with his explanation: American women were too independent. Japanese women, he claimed, strengthened their men by staying quiet and dependent.

Still, Admiral Nomura liked Peggy and gave her a safe conduct pass: a small, square piece of cloth with a red Japanese symbol in one corner and black Japanese characters on one side. "If you are ever in danger with the Japanese troops," he said, "show this. You are the only foreigner to whom we are giving this type of identification."

A few days later, Peggy arranged an interview with a Chinese officer, General Tsai Ting-Kai, who was considered a hero for his brave defense of Shanghai.

Sasha, the driver she hired to escort her to General Tsai's headquarters, had escaped from the Red Army during the Russian Civil War after being left for dead on a frozen battlefield. After trudging for miles, starved and alone, he finally arrived in China via a caravan. Now he made his living in Shanghai as a tourist chauffeur.

When Sasha again found himself in the middle of a war zone, huddled in the tiny tomb with Peggy, something snapped. He became deeply disturbed. "His body shook," wrote Peggy later, "and I knew that at any moment, at any second, he might break. And I knew that I was responsible for his being here. He would not forget that."

Sasha's body convulsed in synchronization to sounds of shells and bullets, as if he were being hit by each one. All the while, his eyes were fixed on Peggy with an expression of "increasing, deadly resolve."

When his "hands began to twist, his long fingers closing tightly against some imagined object," Peggy sensed that he was going to try to kill her, perhaps out of a crazed desire to cheat death himself.

Peggy knew her slightest movement might send Sasha lunging toward her. But she had to break the spell. Without turning from his gaze, she reached for the door. It opened a crack.

A beam of light fell across Sasha's face. It startled him. He made an odd guttural sound and rushed out of the grave, apparently unaware of his surroundings. He was shot almost immediately.

Overwhelmed with pity at Sasha's ironic fate, Peggy sat down in the grave and pondered her own: "Like Sasha, I had come a long way ... and now I was caught in a grave — maybe my own."

The Japanese were headed toward the grave; Peggy could see them through the partially open door. To protect themselves from a sniper who might be hiding inside, they fired at the tomb in regular intervals as they approached. Peggy was paralyzed with confusion and indecision. With fear.

The desire to live suddenly overpowered all her other emotions. Peggy swung the door wide open. The rush of air cleared her mind. Then she remembered something that might just save her life: the safe conduct pass from Admiral Nomura!

She fumbled through her bag and found the piece of cloth. She fastened it to her coat, over her heart; that's where the men would take aim, that's where they would look first. Then she fluffed her hair; if the Japanese recognized her gender, it might save her life.

Peggy crawled out of the tomb. She stood up, hands on her head.

The Japanese saw her. Their bayonets gleamed in the sunlight. Peggy knew they were trained killers. But she saw something in their faces that surprised her: fear. "In the briefest period of time," she wrote later, "I realized that all military heroism, all senseless butchery, destruction, and life-letting were only the offsprings of men driven by inhuman fear."

She walked out to meet the lieutenant, pointing to the safe conduct pass. He was clearly astonished. Then he bowed to her. The men dropped their rifles. In perfect English the lieutenant asked, "You are lost?" He graciously allowed Peggy an escort back to the headquarters of General Yoshinori Shirakawa, a Japanese officer Peggy had met in Siberia in 1919. When she came face-to-face with him, he smiled and said, "You know, if you do not give up your war corresponding, you are surely going to end your life in a battlefield."

The conflict ended on March 3, 1932. By then, 14,000 Chinese people had lost their lives, including 10,000 civilians. On March 4, Peggy filed her last story for the Daily News.

One year later, in February 1933, the League of Nations formally condemned Japan for its takeover of Manchuria. Japan responded by leaving the league. The war between China and Japan was just beginning.

When Japan expanded its war with China to include most of the Far East in 1941 and 1942, Peggy couldn't get immediate accreditation to cover the war. Now she had two things against her: not only her gender but also her age. She was 53.

She settled for reporting in Hawaii on wounded men coming in from the Pacific island battles.

"The mangled bodies of boys," Peggy wrote, "who were so young and virile a short time before ... now mutilated, some beaten for life. ... It was an agony to see them go; worse to see them come back."

In January 1945, Peggy finally received accreditation to visit the islands in the Pacific. Women correspondents were allowed to land on these islands with or shortly after the military nurses, which often meant that the Japanese were still in the area. While in the Marianas Islands, Peggy was told one morning that a Japanese sniper had been found only 100 yards from her quarters.

During her interviews, Peggy learned that some of the American fighting men were disgusted with the racially inspired attacks against Japanese Americans in the United States. They were particularly angered by an incident in which a crazed mob forced a Japanese American farmer to leave his employment on a New Jersey farm. "We are not fighting to inherit a world full of hatred and suspicion," the men told Peggy, "and when the people at home stage a scene like that we feel betrayed. Why can't they let us do the fighting out here where it belongs? Sometimes we wonder what we will be going back to."

The fighting men, grateful that Peggy cared enough to listen to their stories, gave her patches from their "outfits" — military divisions — that they wanted her to place on her beret. By the end of the war Peggy had collected 50 such patches, which she displayed on a total of seven berets.

Peggy was not only interested in what the fighting men had to say; she also tried to learn all she could about civilians in previously occupied areas. While reporting from the Marianas Islands, Peggy learned that the locals had been brutalized by the Japanese. "They were sent to the fields to work like slaves," she wrote, "and their food was rationed to them in small, inadequate amounts. They were beaten and beheaded and shot because they did not know the intricate and senseless routine of Japanese manners. They were tortured for information which they did not have."

Peggy hoped to follow the troops all the way to Japan, partly because she wanted to ask Admiral Nomura if he had changed his mind about American men and their ability to wage war. But Japan surrendered before the invasion became necessary.

After the war, Peggy decided to stop working as a war correspondent. Meeting wounded men face-to-face had disturbed her deeply. She no longer considered war an adventure but a tragedy. As the years went on, Peggy felt her work had been forgotten. She became increasingly reclusive: she was ashamed to no longer appear the dashing reporter her friends and family remembered. Two years before her death, she found a measure of peace by joining the Catholic Church.

Peggy died of breast cancer on June 19, 1967, at the age of 76.

MINNIE VAUTRIN

American Hero at the Nanking Massacre

IN DECEMBER 1937, Nanking was a city in flight. Its streets were jammed with the last major flood of civilians who had the means to leave the war-torn city. Half the original population was now gone. Most of the remaining 500,000 civilians were there only because they couldn't afford transportation or had nowhere else to go.

But there was one small group of foreigners in Nanking — Americans and Europeans — who had stayed deliberately. They were the members of the International Committee for the Nanking Safety Zone, which referred to an approximate three-mile area in the city designed to be a wartime refuge for civilians. Women and children were to be housed within the safety zone at Ginling Women's College. Its president was an American woman named Minnie Vautrin.

Educated at the University of Illinois, Minnie had fallen in love with China when she was first sent there by a missionary society in order to start a school for Chinese girls. Minnie eventually moved on to Ginling Women's College in Nanking.

In July 1937, Minnie was on vacation when she heard that Japanese and Chinese troops had exchanged fire at the Marco Polo Bridge near Peking (Beijing). She rushed back to Nanking, where she found the city preparing for war. In August, war erupted in Shanghai. Nanking would certainly be next. Why? It was Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalist capital and an example of what he wanted all China to be: a perfect blend of ancient culture and modern technology. To destroy it would be an enormous symbolic victory for Japan.

While Minnie and others prepared the campus defensively for war, she discussed other possibilities with some colleagues, summarizing their conversation in her diary: "Are we to stand by hopelessly and see war come upon the Orient or is there something that we can do — and if so, what?"

Minnie certainly did not want to "stand by." She began to drill her students on air raid procedures. One hour later, the Japanese dropped their first bombs on Nanking. The air raids continued almost daily throughout the rest of the summer and autumn, each time killing and wounding hundreds of civilians. Bomb shelters sprang up all over the city, Ginling College included, where Minnie directed their construction.

The courage shown by the Chinese during the air raids gave Minnie a new respect for them: "If Japan only knew it," she wrote in her diary on September 26, "she is welding the Chinese together as a nation more firmly day by day. There is a courage, a confidence, and a determination that I have never seen before. To go along the street and to see the many new [bomb shelters] makes you feel that China is digging in and is determined never to yield but to sacrifice all, if that is necessary."

Toward the end of November, Minnie walked down one of Nanking's main roads. Nearly every store was closed. Military vehicles raced past carrying war supplies and military officers. Mule carts and rickshaws, moving slower, carried fleeing civilians. And Minnie encountered women and children who asked her for the exact location of the safety zone.

Minnie estimated that Ginling could house a total of 2,750 refugees. But by December 11, only 750 had come. That was about to change.

On December 12, orders came for the surviving Chinese army to evacuate by way of the Yangtze River. The Nanking defenders were poorly trained, ill-equipped, and spoke a variety of confusing dialects. And there weren't enough boats for all of them to escape across the river. When the Japanese dropped leaflets from planes promising leniency to anyone who surrendered, the confused, exhausted, stranded Chinese soldiers were all too willing to believe them.

They shouldn't have. The Japanese army was in no mood to be gracious. Their leaders had promised that all of China — populated by a race they considered subhuman — would be defeated within three months. But they had been fighting there for four, and very little of the enormous nation was under their control. The Japanese were ready to avenge themselves, assert their supremacy, and terrify the rest of China into surrendering quickly.

On December 13, the remaining Chinese soldiers outside Nanking meekly surrendered by the thousands. They were machine-gunned to death. The Japanese army now turned its attention to the city.

When the fighting stopped the day before, Minnie took note of the sudden silence in her diary before voicing her main concern: "Our fate at the hands of a victorious army."

Minnie came face-to-face with representatives of that army on December 16 when a group of officers arrived at Ginling to search the campus for any hidden Chinese soldiers. They apparently didn't believe her when she explained the safety zone was a civilian refuge. "They wanted every room opened," wrote Minnie, "and if the key was not forthcoming immediately they were most impatient and one of their party stood ready with an ax to open the door by force." The Japanese set up six machine guns around the campus to shoot any fleeing Chinese soldiers.

While no Chinese soldiers were found at Ginling, they were found elsewhere within the safety zone. John Rabe, a local German businessman, head of the Nazi party in Nanking, and the leader of the safety zone, had earlier encountered 400 starved and straggling Chinese soldiers. Although it was against the rules, Rabe's pity for them was so great, he convinced them to throw away their weapons and seek shelter in the safety zone until they could be arrested. He didn't realize then that all surrendering soldiers would be murdered. When the Japanese discovered them, they took them away, along with hundreds of civilian workers — rickshaw coolies, manual laborers, police officers — accused of being soldiers in disguise because they, like soldiers, had calloused hands.

---

Excerpted from Women Heroes of World War II â" The Pacific Theater by Kathryn J. Atwood. Copyright © 2017 Kathryn J. Atwood. Excerpted by permission of Chicago Review Press Incorporated.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---