The question of whether the words and deeds of Li Zongren and Bai Chongxi, leaders of the Guangxi clique and war criminals, differed in any significant way from those of Chiang Kai-shek and Gu Zhutong has sparked considerable public debate.

People point out that both Chiang Kai-shek and Li Zongren spoke of peace—Chiang from January 1, 1949, and Li from January 22 of the same year. In this respect, there is no difference between them. However, while Chiang issued no orders for such measures as freedom of speech or an end to secret police activities, Li did issue such orders, marking a distinction. Yet these orders proved to be mere empty promises: not only were they never implemented, but the oppression of the people actually intensified. In Nanjing, even the Peace Promotion Association was shut down; in Shanghai, striking workers were massacred; and Bai Chongxi behaved much like Gu Zhutong. Gu had ordered Liu Zhi to blow up the large iron bridge over the Huai River at Bengbu on the Jinpu Railway, and Bai was now instructing Zhang Zhen to prepare to destroy the great Huai River bridge at Changtaiguan on the Pinghan Railway, as well as the tunnel project at Wushengguan. After two and a half years of experience, the people on both sides of the Yellow River have come to know full well the Guangxi forces’ savagery, which surpasses even that of the Chiang clique’s troops.

While Chiang Kai-shek has long been accustomed to being branded a lackey of U.S. imperialism and never bothers to defend himself, Li Zongren, less used to such accusations, has been quick to protest. For example, in his “Letter to Mao Zedong” released through the Central News Agency on January 27, Li stated: “Your broadcasts repeatedly claim that the government’s present advocacy of peace is a conspiracy hatched in collusion with a certain foreign power. Such views are based solely on preconceived notions.” Here, Li is not only seeking to exonerate his own government since January 22 but also to clear Chiang Kai-shek’s administration prior to that date. Everyone knows that it was Chiang who first raised the issue of peace, with Li following later.

Yesterday, Chiang Kai-shek was a ferocious demon; yesterday, Li Zongren, Bai Chongxi, and the entire Guangxi clique were likewise monstrous figures. Today, however, they seem more like smiling tigers.

When Chiang lies, his statements are usually hollow—phrases like “returning power to the people” or “I have always sought peace”—offering nothing concrete for critics to pin him down on. Li, by contrast, is far less adept at this, readily giving his opponents ammunition. In his “Letter to Mao Zedong,” he declared: “The present government has already demonstrated its sincerity toward peace through both word and deed. All the demands previously made by people across the country—such as the release of political prisoners, freedom of speech, and protection of civil liberties—are being gradually put into effect.” To this, critics retort: “If facts truly exist, how can you call it false?” Others reply: “There are no facts at all—how can you claim otherwise?” Yet Li insists: “The facts are there—how can it be false?” He possesses just such a stubborn, almost naive quality.

Nevertheless, Li does have one advantage over Chiang. On the question of whether war criminals should be punished, Chiang and his inner circle have consistently refused to entertain the idea, either remaining silent—as in Chiang’s January 21 resignation statement, which contained not a single word about the Communists’ eight-point proposal—or openly opposing it, as expressed in speeches by Leizhen, Zhu Jiayi, Pan Gongzhan, and others, who flatly rejected treating the issue of war criminals as a matter for discussion. Sun Ke echoed this stance, arguing that peace talks must be “fair and reasonable,” which effectively amounted to opposition to any punishment of war criminals. Li, however, took a different approach: at once endorsing and resisting the idea, a peculiar trait that sets him apart.

In his January 22 declaration, Li stated: “With regard to the eight conditions put forward by the Communist side, the government is willing to begin negotiations immediately.” In other words, Li’s government was prepared to promptly enter into talks concerning the Communist demand for the punishment of war criminals, along with the other seven conditions, offering a sweet enticement to start. Six days later, though, Li’s tone shifted dramatically. On January 27, 1949, the acting president of the reactionary, pro-imperialist Nationalist government declared in his “Letter to Mao Zedong”: “The government recognizes your eight conditions as a viable basis for peace negotiations, and all issues can be discussed and resolved during the talks. But if, before the negotiations have even begun, one side insists that the other must first fulfill certain conditions, how can this be called a genuine peace talk? If past grievances and right-and-wrong are given excessive weight, then vengeance will only beget further vengeance, and there will never be an end to it. Alas, my fellow countrymen! Should we proceed down this path, both you and I would become eternal sinners against our nation.” Ouch—Li struck hard with that shot. Still, his line of argument remained within the confines of the Guangxi clique’s standard playbook, easily countered by China’s time-honored military strategy, epitomized by Sun Tzu’s Art of War. The notion that “the other side must first fulfill certain conditions before negotiations can begin” stems from the fact that, since their catastrophic defeat, the reactionary Nationalist regime in Nanjing has been desperately clamoring for talks. The Communists have responded by saying, “Very well—when you are ready, come and negotiate.” Meanwhile, the war criminals themselves insist that talks must start immediately. The Communists suggest that, if the war criminals are so eager to talk, they might as well be given something constructive to do: arrest a group of their peers (though certainly not all). That, in essence, is the sequence of events. Later, the Communists further softened their position by switching from arrests to surveillance, a major concession that finally quieted the war criminals’ protests. But that is a story for another day. Returning to January 27, Li again argued that past grievances should not be overly emphasized—that is, there should be no clear assignment of wartime responsibility or punishment of war criminals—even though “unspeakable catastrophes” had occurred throughout the country, from south of the Yellow River to the Yangtze and from north of the Yellow River to the Songhua. He warned that if punishment were imposed, the war criminals’ supporters would retaliate, potentially on such a massive scale that no one in the nation could eat or survive. In that case, both he, Li Zongren, and you, Mao Zedong, would be condemned by our nation (though one might ask: if everyone is dead, what remains of the nation?) as guilty parties for a thousand years to come. Fortunately, the sentence would last only a millennium; after a thousand years, everything resets, and another hero emerges—a mercy, indeed, from Li, the acting president.

Thus, as people can see, Li Zongren is thoroughly inconsistent: he supports negotiating the punishment of war criminals while simultaneously opposing any actual punishment. His foot is firmly planted on two boats, and it is precisely this ambivalence that distinguishes him from Chiang Kai-shek.