Tank Man

This is a story written by my son, Owain, when he was 16. His High School English teacher asked his permission to use the story to show to future students as an example of exemplary creative writing.

*

I began working as a waiter at one of the busiest restaurants in the city, the Wang Fu Jing Banquet Hall, about two years ago. Despite the longer hours it was an improvement on my previous job in a factory out in the suburbs. I work in sweltering heat amid clanging pots and pans and the endless echo of orders being shouted across the kitchen. It had been an exhausting day on one of the busiest periods of the year; I wiped the sweat from my brow as I collected the last of the greasy plates and bowls from the tables out front. I was very relieved to reach the end of my shift. I put some leftover food sitting on one of the kitchen worktops into a plastic bag to take home to my family.

As I left the restaurant through the rear door, the chilly evening air dried up the perspiration on my face. I was getting the bus home with Chen, a friend who lived in the same neighbourhood as me. We met up on the corner and made our way to the bus shelter, where we sat down next to an old one-legged beggar. 

“No point waiting,” he muttered.

I looked at the old man, slightly startled: “What do you mean?” I asked him.

 “They’ve cancelled all the buses. No point waiting.”

 “Why’ve they been cancelled?”

All I know is I’ve been sitting here for three hours and I haven’t seen a single bus pass by.”

Well. That was a nuisance, especially as our apartment block was roughly a two hour walk away. I called my wife from a nearby pay phone and told her why I wouldn’t get home till late.

As we set off on our trek I was struck by how deserted the streets were, which was unusual for a Friday evening. The few people we did see hurried by in the opposite direction to us.

Turning into a side street I was almost knocked over by a running man with a wild look in his eyes. He fell to the ground and I noticed that he was bleeding profusely from his right leg.

“Are you okay?” I asked as I helped him up. The blood had soaked through his clothes and was dripping onto the pavement. He staggered to his feet and stared at me with a dazed look. Without saying a word he limped off, dragging his bloody leg behind him.

Chen and I called after him, but he ignored us. Obviously he was in a state of shock.

We continued walking, bewildered by what had just happened. Who or what had injured the man? We didn’t know, but I couldn’t get the image of his face out of my head. He was scared of something and whatever he was running from, we were heading towards it.

There was something in the air, we could feel it. In fact I’d sensed it from the moment we found out the buses had been cancelled, and then there was that frightened young man. It was obvious something was amiss. I had an uneasy feeling that whatever had caused the buses to be cancelled, that injured man, and the empty streets, would undoubtedly cause more misfortune.

The side street opened up into a larger street which in turn opened onto a boulevard. There was surprisingly little traffic, and not many people were out, despite it being the rush hour.

We walked about twenty minutes more before we heard it, a faint sound that I couldn’t decipher at first, but as we got closer to the Square I could hear it more clearly: thousands of voices chanting in unison, shouting slogans, over and over. Everyone had heard rumours about the protest, passed around by word of mouth, but the only official information on it came from the TV; which usually churned out generic messages like: “There has been a minor disturbance in the Square.” But this was no minor disturbance.

We came to a steep upwards incline in the road, the chanting getting louder by the minute. When we reached the crest of the road we got a big shock: there were thousands of people, if not hundreds of thousands, packed into the Square, and everywhere were huge banners with slogans daubed on them, such as “Down with corruption,” and “End Dictatorship.”

The noise was deafening. “We demand Liberty! Down with dictatorship!” the people chanted. Chen and I were stunned. We had both heard about the “minor” protests of course, but we had also been told not to go near the Square; so many people didn’t really know what was going on.

“I’m going down there” Chen said.

I jogged along to keep up with him, but I was distracted by the tumult around us and couldn’t keep up. Chen was getting further away, disappearing deeper into the crowd. I called after him but he couldn’t hear me. It was so congested, with everyone roaring slogans at the top of their lungs. I felt claustrophobic and a little panicky. I needed to get out of the crowd. I wanted to get home and be with my family.

I pushed my way through the milling protestors, until they began to thin out and I started to hurry away.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! With the sound of gunshots ringing in my ears and bullets zipping around me I sprinted away from the crowds, and when I chanced a quick look behind I saw bodies crumpling. The People’s Liberation Army Soldiers were stood atop of trucks, shooting their own people! Catching sight of a sign saying I was at the North East section of the Square I made a quick decision: make a dash for Chang’an Avenue. From there I could get far away from the chaos.

Panting and sweating, I raced out of the Square. As I got further away, my fear slowly turned to outrage. Our own army, firing upon students demanding liberty! And it wasn’t just students, ordinary people were there too, protesting for their rights. Hell, my best friend was probably still there.

Almost out of breath, I reached Chang’an Avenue. I’d only ever been down the Avenue in a bus, and now on foot it looked huge. Once I got across Chang’an I would be safe, I could get home. Bracing myself, I ran out into the Avenue.

Not looking left or right, I began sprinting across the highway; the only thought in my head was that I had to get to the other side of this enormously wide road. So intense was my concentration I hadn’t heard a sinister sound that seemed to be growing louder by the second; I stopped running and swivelled my head to see if I could spot where the noise was coming from; what I saw was terrifying: in the near distance a line of tanks were rumbling directly towards me.

I should have run but my feet were rooted to the spot. I could barely control my anger. Ordinary people were being killed, students, workers, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, were all about to be attacked.

I was very scared, but also extremely angry. Angrier than I’d ever been. I felt the tears on my cheeks, and then I felt myself running, running like an automaton towards the tanks. They had to be stopped, the killing had to stop.

They were thundering along, getting closer and closer. Would they shoot at this solitary pedestrian? Would they try to drive over me?

I was mad with rage: ordinary people, students, workers, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, were being murdered!

I stopped. The tanks were about ten or fifteen metres away. Right in front of me. I wanted to run away but I couldn’t. I stood my ground, determined to stop them. Determined to stop the killing. They tried to go around me, and I moved to stay in front of them. The lead tank advanced until it was right in front of me. I could see the driver, as he poked his head out of the turret, but I had only one thought in my mind: They shall not pass!

*

The image of tank man was broadcast all around the world in the days after the Tiananmen Square Massacre. To this day his identity is still unknown.

Written by Owain Woodman Carr

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