Teichman had been invited along to describe for Needham the challenges of travel in remote corners of China. Few were better qualified. Like other central Asian luminaries of the turn of the century, men like Aurel Stein, Sven Hedin, and Sir Francis Younghusband, Teichman was a traveller of enormous resourcefulness and courage. In 1935, despite having severe arthritis and still suffering the lingering effects of a youthful riding accident, he travelled by truck thousands of miles across the Tarim basin to the far western Chinese market town of Kashgar, then pressed on with a pony and on foot across the Pamirs and the Karakoram ranges to Gilgit, before finally reaching New Delhi. He said that this journey was his swan song as a traveller in Asia – for it was the last, the longest, and the most ambitious of his solo expeditions. He had been doing this sort of thing, disappearing on ‘special missions’ and ‘fact-finding journeys’ into this forbidding corner of the planet, since before the Great War.
The advice he gave that night proved invaluable, as would become clear during Needham’s later epic voyages through China. And Needham was hugely impressed – as much by Teichman’s oddities as by his offer of assistance. Teichman, he wrote home, ‘is bent almost double, has a face reminding one of E. M. Forster, [and] comes out with a voice like a kind of harsh bell, extremely definite and clear and imitable’.
The dinner over and the socializing eventually done with,16Needham promptly found his office, assembled such staff as he had been allotted, and got down to work. At first nearly all his tasks involved his official duties for the Sino-British Science Cooperation Office, of which he was the director, and which was housed in a tiny prefabricated building at the top of the riverbank. He enjoyed the assistance of only a driver, a part-time secretary from India, and one older man of uncertain responsibilities. The organization would grow, and mightily; but at the beginning Needham and these three did all the work.
And the work, at least in the early days, was gruelling. By Easter, Needham was grumbling to his diary, if reasonably amiably, about both the scale of the task ahead of him and the practical exigencies of performing it in the still-besieged wartime city. While others might be taking their ease during the dawn hours on the Monday holiday after Easter, for example, Needham had not gone to bed at all: he was still up, writing in his journal – in part to get his frustrations off his chest, in part to offer up an illustration of the duties he had to perform.
On the Saturday before, he wrote, he had had an ‘exhausting’ two-hour interview with China’s minister for war, and had then had to return to his office and write letters to a variety of bodies – one being the Potteries Trade Research Association in England – as well as to several local addresses. He then rushed out to dinner with ‘medical people’; came back and worked until past midnight; then slept fitfully until the moment when, very early the next morning, Easter Sunday (a day not celebrated by the Chinese):
word is brought that the secretary of the vice-director of the National Resources Commission has called, so he has to wait while I dress. Hardly have I had breakfast before I am called to a two-hour meeting with the Ambassador concerning the anti-malaria situation, including claims by several varieties of commercial crooks of various nationalities. On return, with anxiety to get something done, find piles of unopened letters waiting…
The telephone service is very dim and the cars also. Thus, five minutes before an important meeting with some minister, I go along to the car park with the wooden paizi, or token, indicating the right to use a Chancery car, to find that Sir Eric Teichman or somebody has gone off with it, paizi or no paizi, whereupon I return to blow up Blofeld in his office, whereupon he flies round to the military or air attaché’s office begging for a car, but when we get to it we find that a tyre is flat, or the driver isn’t there, or that it hasn’t got any more petrol, or that it is using power alcohol from molasses so that it stalls on some awkward hill.
Chongqing is a city defined by its hills. It rises like the prow of a ship, a great pyramid of jumbled rock and humanity, at the meeting point of two of China’s mightiest rivers, the Yangzi and the Jialing. Even though it is fully 1,500 miles from the sea, the Yangzi is still immense here – a great grey winding-sheet of a stream, littered with sailing junks, in places a quarter of a mile wide, in parts boiling with currents, in others slow and limpid, roaring imperturbably down from the Tibetan hills to where it pauses here in Chongqing, heavy with mud, on its passage through the great Red Basin of central Sichuan.
The confluence of any two gigantic streams often provides a natural place to build a city; and so Chongqing is understandably ancient, having first been settled in the fourth century bc, and it has been one of the country’s greatest inland cities for at least a thousand years. Foreigners were permitted to settle there from the beginning of the 1890s – it was the first of China’s interior cities to be obliged by treaty to provide concessions for traders and diplomats. Most of them liked the place – it was always lively; the people were peppery and amusing; the food was spicy; the women were said (except by supporters of a rival claim from the eastern city of Suzhou) to be the prettiest in the nation. The major problem was the weather: Chongqing is one of China’s three ‘great furnaces’, blisteringly hot from April until November, the air like bundles of heated cotton-wool, thick and barely breathable.
In the early spring of 1943 the weather was not the major issue. The ruin and depredation caused by two years of nearly continuous Japanese bombing had pounded the city almost to death, and it was only now struggling painfully back to life, the people emerging from their underground shelters, blinking, into the smoky sunlight. Between 1939 and 1941 there had been no fewer than 268 bombing raids, much of the central city had been gutted by firestorms, and thousands had died – more than 4,000 in one terrible two-day raid at the very beginning of the Japanese campaign.
The Chinese behaved with memorable stoicism during the bombing – which was arguably more sustained and terrifying than any other aerial bombardment inflicted on any other city in history. Robert Payne, a writer and teacher who befriended Needham in China – and who came briefly on one of Needham’s great expeditions – talked in 1943 to an elderly Chinese professor who managed to put the campaign into the kind of perspective that Needham would have welcomed. Payne was discussing the American bombing raids on Tokyo the year before, somewhat approvingly, and the Chinese sage was nodding his head in a way that Payne assumed signified complete agreement. It was only after the man began to speak that he realized ‘for the thousandth time since I came to China that a man who nods his head may actually be expressing the most profound disagreement’:
‘I was in Chongqing during the bombardment,’ he said. ‘I have no wish that the Japanese should share the same fate. Nothing is so terrible, nothing is so remorseless, nothing so revolting to the soul as a bombardment. The soul cannot suffer in peace after such indignities. Only now, two years afterward, can I think coolly of what happened, and I now praise God that China for centuries refused to harbour such things. The Chinese knew all about poison gases fifteen centuries ago; we invented an airplane, and quite rightly executed the inventor; we are the only nation that has thought continually of peace. I have no malice against the Japanese, who killed my parents and my brothers. I have pity, but it is not Christian pity, I’m afraid – it is the pity that burns.’
Such conversations fascinated Needham, and, as with the grafting of the plum tree and the making of the abacus, he avidly noted the details. But it turned out that he was not so interested in whether or not the Chinese felt pity for the Japanese, or in their views on the supposed indignity of bombing campaigns. It was the old man’s idea that a Chinese inventor had come up with an airplane, and that other Chinese scientists knew all about poison gas – and so these two nuggets of information, two Chinese ‘firsts’, if they were provable, went into the notes he was preparing, and also went into his ledger with a simple notation: ‘Research this further’.
The mission, which was officially to oc
cupy Needham’s next four years, was defined in all its aspects by the mechanics of the war that raged through China. By the time he arrived in Chongqing it was a conflict that had already steadied itself into an uneasy stalemate, and with the arithmetic pointing to one pitiless conclusion: Japan was going to lose.
Everything had changed after the attacks of December 1941 on Pearl Harbor, Hong Kong, and Singapore, when the Chinese government had at last declared itself officially at war with the invading armies from Tokyo. The Allies’ cool-headed military analysts swiftly concluded that as a consequence the eventual outcome was inevitable: insofar as China was concerned, Japan had embarked on a war that for one simple reason – China’s immense size – was absolutely unwinnable. China, 4,000 miles from Shanghai to Kashgar, 3,000 from Hainan Island to the Gobi Desert, was like a vast, shapeless sponge for any invading army: it could soak up, enfold, and suffocate endless supplies of men and matériel and still itself remain healthy, whole, and intact.
Joseph Needham remarked on this years later. There had evidently come a point in the conflict, he said, when Tokyo also reached the same very simple realization: that even after it had fought over and then secured some town or village somewhere in China, its commanders would be obliged to leave behind sentries to guard bridges and culverts and tactically important sites: ‘and have you any idea how many bridges and culverts there are in China? Do you think Tokyo ever thought of this? Uncountable thousands. More men would be needed than Japan has in her entire army. The fact is, China is just too big, too complicated, for any other people in the world to come and dominate and control it. Japan was on a fool’s errand, and by 1941, it had come to recognise that.’
The Nationalist government in Chongqing had therefore decided to spend less of its time and effort in the early 1940s fighting the Japanese, and instead to let the sheer size of China wear the invaders down. Chiang Kai-shek had chosen the redoubt of Chongqing as his capital deliberately, with this very fact in mind. Even if China were to lose fifteen of its eighteen provinces, he once famously said, ‘if we hold on to Yunnan, Guizhou and Sichuan’, where Chongqing lies, ‘then we could defeat any enemy, recover the lost land, restore our country, and accomplish our revolution’.
There was an additional reason for Chiang’s optimism. Because the Allies would be fighting Japan on the other fronts that had opened up since their attack on Pearl Harbor, Tokyo would be obliged to detach soldiers from its garrisons in China, weakening its presence in and its hold on China and so reducing the likelihood that China would lose any more territory. Therefore, a military policy of containment and survival became Chiang Kai-shek’s priority – that, and defeating Mao Zedong and Zhou Enlai and their Communist battalions, whose own ideological power had been growing steadily during the first four years of the war.
However, one major problem remained for the government in Chongqing – the supply of critically necessary food, weapons, and ammunition.
A fair amount percolated through the 2,000-mile frontier between free and occupied China, with Japanese troops sometimes colluding in the smuggling. However, since the Japanese had attacked and occupied the northern part of French Indochina, the main railway between Hanoi and Kunming – which had been China’s lifeline, used for bringing in huge quantities of badly needed supplies from India – had been severed. The only other supply routes passed along the immensely difficult caravan trails from Russia into the deserts of Xinjiang, and were seen as wholly impracticable. China – and its army – thus faced a real risk of being slowly starved to death.
In an attempt to remedy this the Allies constructed the legendary Burma Road and the Ledo Road, hacked through well-nigh impenetrable jungles between India and China, in one of the most heroic engineering feats of any war, anywhere. They also arranged – most relevantly to this story – the air bridge over the Hump, the bridge by which Needham had travelled into China in February, and by which he would now want to bring in supplies for his own official mission. To do that, he would need permission. For his was a rather different task. The Allies were concerned most of all with keeping China’s body alive, fed, and in as fair a shape as could be expected. Needham’s duties were much more concerned with keeping the Chinese mind in good health, too – with making sure that the finest brains in the eastern world, legatees to the greatest civilization on the planet, were kept nurtured and in good spirits during all the trials of battle.
The specific official task of his Sino-British Science Cooperation Office – later called SBSCO – was to bring succour and comfort to China’s academic community. He was to ‘cheer them up a bit’, as Jimmy Crowther of the British Council had put it in London. He was to remind them they were not alone, that the world was thinking of them. But fine words butter no parsnips: what was really needed, Needham discovered as he made his first rounds of the ramshackle capital city, was supplies – laboratory equipment, reference books, and scientific journals. The universities inside free China needed to know what was going on in the world outside, and, thus informed, they needed to begin their own research all over again. Such considerations were uppermost in Needham’s mind as he settled in at his new billet.
Once he had got its measure, he found that the city was not at all as he had imagined. He wrote:
To start with, it is an extremely sprawling place, running along at different levels for several miles, so that there is plenty of green about everywhere, and the sound of cocks and hens even in the midst of the city. Hence there is a certain resemblance to Torquay, which the reddish earth and some of the masonry makes you think of, but the hills are higher… At night, when the lights are out, and you hear the sirens of the river steamers (an ever-present sound, though not so frequent as in New York), the place is said to resemble Hong Kong. It also resembles Harpers Ferry, where the Shenandoah joins the Potomac, and the sirens of the B & O trains redound… but the scenery is on a larger scale here. It seems that the city contains nothing old and beautiful architecturally, but rather masses of jerrybuilt structures put up after the bombings had destroyed everything that was there before.
Some people might suggest that Needham was wearing rose-coloured glasses, since most visitors to Chongqing in wartime, even though they liked its hugger-mugger spirit and zest, found it much less congenial and terribly dirty. It had dingy steps, slime-slippery alleyways, the stink of sewage, rats the size of small dogs,17piles of rubbish spilling down the hillsides, scrofulous children, a million people crowded into a space originally meant for a third that number, and a cluster of immigrants and refugees so impossibly varied that communication was difficult, commerce frustrated, and service all but unobtainable. Moreover, the telephone service was virtually non-existent, the electricity supply was fitful, there were no taxis, and living conditions generally were only tolerable. Because this was China, it was wartime, and everyone sent off to live in the capital had been forewarned that a stiff upper lip was a sine qua non, stoicism was part of the furniture, and fatalism went with the territory.
But soon after Needham arrived he was able to effect an escape. Late in May the ambassador asked him to drive 200 miles to the west, on a first mission to practise the art of spreading good cheer in the capital city of Sichuan, Chengdu. It was a journey he anticipated with some eagerness – not least because one of the secretaries at the embassy, picking up quickly on his fondness for pretty young things, had written to tell him of the attractive women he might meet there. ‘If you like to see a beautiful girl, Lettice Huang… Miss Kimmie Gao is also beautiful… Don’t bother to see her unless you are inclined to have some female company.’ He left the weary old ruins of Chongqing for the foothills of Chengdu with a certain spring in his step.
His route went west through the fields and paddy terraces of Sichuan to the city in the foothills of the Tibetan plateau. Nowadays, on a seamless superhighway, it is a trip of less than three hours, but in the 1940s it was a three-day journey. On his way, Needham found that, to his great delight, he was once again able to indulg
e his academic curiosity as he had done so freely in Kunming. He dropped in on an alcohol factory (where he was able to speak in fluent German to the senior manager, who had trained in Frankfurt), he inspected a brine works, he gave lectures at two local universities, and he ferreted around in shops for old books – collecting on this first expedition a grand total of nine venerable volumes, including treatises, unavailable in any library back home in England, on the history of Chinese mathematics and astronomy, as well as books on Daoism and alchemy. After studying them, he slipped the volumes into the weekly diplomatic bag – the privileged embassy postal system – and eventually they made their way to Cambridge to await his return.
When he reached Chengdu, the situation was precisely as the secretary at the embassy had told him. He enjoyed his stay hugely – in part because he did indeed find beautiful women there. Wielding his two techniques of flattery and breathtaking directness, which would soon become familiar to their many victims, he flirted, and not infrequently he pounced. ‘I can’t help writing to say what a charming person I think you are!’ he wrote to one young woman, Zhu Jingying:
I was much impressed when I first met you in the laboratory, and that was why I asked you to my party this evening, which certainly went with a swing. I have a good instinct about people: I know the right sort the first moment I see them. At the party I was more charmed than ever, for you seemed an enchanting mixture of seriousness and gaiety, reminding me of a girl I met in Kunming who drank a toast to Li Po in a way I shall never forget. With something so bright, so intelligent, something (and this is rare in women) so witty. Being easy to look at too. A Polish woman biologist (who afterwards became one of my greatest and most intimate friends) said to me once Je suis tout envahie de ton personalité, and that is rather how I feel about you. You are not ordinary.
The reason I write like this is because in wartime life is rather uncertain and it may be that we shall never meet again: so I wanted you to know the admiration I felt.