by Scott Savitt

Saturday June 3, 1989 8 p.m.

It’s still light outside. I haven’t slept in 48 hours. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. All I want to do is lie down, but I know I have to keep working.

The office telephone rings. UPI bureau chief David Schweisberg picks it up then barks, “Savitt, it’s your girlfriend.” Dede and the U.S. ambassador’s wife Mrs. Bette Bao Lord are in the CBS headquarters. The office takes up the entire tenth floor of the Shangri-La Hotel in the northwest university district.

“Wei! Wei! (Hey! Hey!)” I grunt the standard Chinese telephone greeting to try to lighten the mood with humor.

“Don’t joke,” Dede says. “You have to get to the west end of Chang’an (the Avenue of Eternal Peace) right away. The troops and tanks are moving. They have orders to clear Tiananmen Square before dawn.”

“Cao, Fuck!

“Thanks for your help,” I add and hear her tell me: “Be careful” as I hang up.

I grab my camera bag and motorcycle helmet, shove my brick-sized cellular telephone into the pocket of my dad’s old army jacket I wear for good luck, and call out: “The troops are moving, I’m heading west.”

“Keep your phone on,” I hear Schweisberg say as I sprint out the door.

I hop on my motorcycle, kick start the engine and speed out the front gate of the diplomatic compound. It’s 10 km. (6.2 miles) to the west end of the city. I’ve made the ride in less than 15 minutes with no traffic. But now the streets are packed with people moving concrete lane dividers into the roadway to block the troops from entering the city.

No car can get through this. Other journalists are going to have a hard time getting to the front line.

Public loudspeakers at every intersection repeat the martial law warning: “Citizens are forbidden to enter the streets or Tiananmen Square. Violators will be responsible for their own fate. Should anyone ignore this order, the martial law troops, people’s armed police and public security officers will use whatever means necessary to enforce it.”

I steer into the bike lane and weave through the crowds heading for Tiananmen.

The Square is packed with people. I never knew how festive a revolt could be. People are smiling, laughing and talking about their hopes for the future. But I see in their eyes fierce determination to hold the heart of the city through the night.

I ride past the portrait of Chairman Mao hanging above the Gate of Heavenly Peace. His suspicious eyes seem to follow me. As I leave the Square the number of people in the street thins out. I veer back onto the main road and pick up speed. The landmarks tick by: Tiananmen (Gate of Heavenly Peace) West Road. Xinhua (New China) Gate. Liubukou (Six Ministries Street Mouth). Xidan (West Monumental Arch). Minzu Gong (National Minorities Palace). Fuxing (Glorious Revival) Gate—the entrance to the old Imperial city. Muxidi—the site of high officials’ residences, including the Communist Party Secretary’s chief of staff and his family. I finally arrive at Gongzhufen—“Tomb of the Princesses” ¹—where the Third Ring road turns south toward the military camps where I know the tanks and troops are billeted.

It’s taken me almost an hour to get here. The sun has set and the sky is now completely dark. The grassy roundabout is filled with people standing in circles. Individuals move from group to group, gathering information and speculating about what the government is going to do. Contrary to the festive mood in the Square, this crowd is on edge.

I feel my cell phone vibrate and pull it out. It’s Dede.

“Where are you?”

“Gongzhufen.”

“The troops and tanks are coming up the road toward you.”

“Thanks,” I say and shove the phone back into my pocket.

Mrs. Lord and Dede’s intelligence is again unerring. I ride my bike south with the lights out to avoid detection. I hear a low rumble grow louder, and as I come over a rise I see a line of battle tanks, armored personnel carriers, and thousands of soldiers with bayonet-tipped assault rifles coming toward me. It’s the most terrifying sight I’ve ever seen.

I whip my bike around and speed back toward the intersection.

“Dabing laile—The soldiers are coming!” I cry as loud as I can.

I hide my bike in a clump of bushes. I’m still wearing my motorcycle helmet, and my bandana covers my mouth and nose. Only my eyes are visible, no one can see I’m a foreigner. Suddenly anti-riot troops in black uniforms with metal shields and steel helmets pour into the roundabout from all sides. People start running. I hear the thud of wooden truncheons smacking skulls.

“Faxisi—Fascists!” “Gou—Dogs!” “Chusheng—Beasts!” onlookers yell. Then the people start fighting back. Young men break sidewalk flagstones into jagged chunks and throw them at the soldiers.

A young riot trooper gets trapped against a metal fence and pelted with bricks and stones until he falls to the ground. I run to help him, but can’t get close as the crowd closes in. They look like they’re beating him to death.

Then I hear the unmistakable sound of machine gun fire. Pop-pop-pop. Steady bursts of three shots that I know means the rifles are on semi-automatic. Red and green tracer bullets streak through the sky. It’s eerily beautiful. I can’t help thinking of the lines from the Star Spangled Banner: “And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air.”

Suddenly a man next to me spins and falls to the ground. I see a red stain spread across his t-shirt. “Are they rubber bullets?” I ask a guy running by.

“Rubber bullets?! Fuck no, they’re live rounds.” He knows what he’s talking about, most people here do mandatory military training and are familiar with these weapons.

Then the tracer fire moves from over our heads directly into the crowd. People start falling all around me. I hear the ppppzzzzhhhh ppppzzzzhhhh ppppzzzzhhhh of high-velocity rifle bullets buzzing past my head. A tear gas canister explodes next to me and I fall to the ground. My eyes are tearing and burning. Gasping for air, I lie paralyzed on the pavement for several minutes. When I can finally see again, the tanks and troops are moving toward the next intersection Muxidi.

I call in the first confirmed death after 10 p.m. I can barely be heard above the din of gunshots.

“Dave,” I say when I hear my boss’s voice, “they’re firing into the crowd and a guy’s dead.”

“How do you know he’s dead?”

“Because his brains are splattered on the pavement.”

The phone cuts off.

A guy my age limps toward me. I see he’s shot in the upper leg. His pants are drenched with blood. I tell him I’ll take him to Fuxing Hospital, a mile away at Muxidi Bridge.

I pull my bike out of the bushes and help him straddle the seat. As he leans against me I feel his blood seep into my clothes. I speed off in the bike lane. The tanks and troops are advancing down the main road beside us less than 20 meters away. They’re firing into the crowd ahead. If they turn their guns sideways we’ll both be shot.

We pass bicycles and flatbed tricycles transporting the wounded.

I speed up to the hospital entrance, drop the kickstand and help the injured guy inside. The sight shocks me. The entrance corridor is filled with gunshot victims. Most aren’t being treated. Some are hooked up to IVs. A handful are covered with bloody white sheets, obviously dead.

“Jiuming—Help!” I yell.

A nurse wearing a surgical mask runs over and we ease the guy onto the floor.

“He needs to be treated!” I shout.

“No one’s available. The doctors are all operating on the worst injured. We aren’t prepared to handle this many wounded.”

I know from my Outward Bound wilderness survival training that the biggest danger of massive trauma is blood loss. If they don’t get transfused quickly the victim “bleeds out.” That’s what’s happening here. This hospital won’t have enough blood for all these people.

“How many wounded?” I ask the nurse.

“All the operating rooms are full. So is the taipingjian—rest-in-peace room.” Rest-in-peace room is the Chinese word for morgue. There must be scores injured and dead.

I step back through the bodies in the entryway. The stench of blood and open wounds sickens me.

But there’s nothing more I can do here. I should be out reporting.

I run outside, hop on my bike and take off after the tanks.

The carnage I just witnessed at Gongzhufen repeats itself at Muxidi. Anti-riot troops try to clear the intersection and are attacked by citizens throwing stones, bricks, bottles and flaming Molotov cocktails. The soldiers open fire again and all around me people drop to the ground bleeding.

“Get her to the hospital immediately or she’ll die,” I yell to a group carrying an injured young woman.

The tragic scene repeats itself all the way down the Avenue of Eternal Peace. Thousands of enraged citizens fill the streets, massing spontaneously at each intersection to resist the assault on their city. Incapable of clearing them with tear gas and batons, the soldiers shoot their way through the crowds and dozens if not hundreds fall at every crossroads.

Fuxing (Glorious Revival) Gate, Minzu Gong (National Minorities Palace). Xidan (West Monumental Arch). Liubukou (Six Ministries Street Mouth). Xinhua (New China) Gate. Tiananmen (Heavenly Peace Gate) West Road. The horrific scene continues. I ride the entire length of the Avenue of Eternal Peace on the sidewalk, as far from the troops as I can get while still catching the action with my camera. Famed photojournalist Robert Capa advised: “If your photographs aren’t good enough, you‘re not close enough.” He’s right, but if I get too close the nervous soldiers will fire at me. The tension sharpens my senses and etches every moment into my memory.

On numerous occasions I make eye contact with soldiers less than 20 meters away. They point their rifles at me several times, but for some reason don’t shoot. I guess they’re exclusively focused on getting to the Square so nothing else matters.

They finally arrive at Tiananmen just after midnight. The tanks and troops begin to fan out and surround the 10-acre square. They line up in straight rows, apparently awaiting orders for the final assault. When the cordon closes the thousands of students and citizens will be trapped in the square.

This is my last chance to join them. I race ahead of the tanks to an alley called Zhengyi Lu—Justice Lane, southeast of the square. It’s part of the old Legation Quarter. ² I lived in this neighborhood for several years and visit close friends here regularly. I know the streets well. I ride down the pitch-dark alleyway with my lights out, park my bike in a dark corner where I can retrieve it later, and run onto the square just before the tank line closes.

An emergency notice broadcasts continuously from public loudspeakers on the Square: “City residents and students, a counterrevolutionary rebellion has taken place in Beijing. A small number of terrorists has incited students to violently attack the Great Hall of the People and throw rocks and Molotov cocktails at PLA soldiers and the people’s armed police, injuring many! Students and residents are asked to leave the Square immediately or you will bear the consequences of your actions.”

I hurry to the Monument of Revolutionary Martyrs at the centre of the Square. Several thousand students and citizens remain here. Those nearest look at me like they’re seeing a ghost. I look down and see I’m covered with blood. Then I remove my bandana. They’re even more shocked to see I’m a foreigner.

“Zenme hui shi What happened?” they ask.

“What happened? Don’t you know?! They’re shooting everyone in sight!”

The students on the Square don’t know what’s occurred outside Tiananmen. I’m the first to bring the tragic news. I’m quickly surrounded and recount everything I’ve witnessed.

Now they’re scared.

“Do you think they’ll shoot us?”

I shrug my shoulders and remain silent.

They sit back down on the marble steps of the monument, visibly shaken.

I sit with them and take a much-needed rest.

“Minbuweisi, naiheyisijuzhi The people aren’t afraid to die, how can you threaten us?” a female student yells, shaking her fist at the tanks and soldiers surrounding the Square. This gesture of defiance heartens her classmates.

“I was just accepted to medical school. This is an inconvenient time to die!” a male student jokes, and the laughter of his classmates relieves the agonising tension.

We sit facing the massed tanks and troops from midnight until 4 a.m. Blinding floodlights I’ve never seen turned on before illuminate the Square. I hear the sound of gunfire and see tracer bullets flying overhead. Street battles continue on the roadways adjacent to Tiananmen.

Finally a young professor from Beijing Normal University, Liu Xiaobo,³ persuades the students that they don’t have to die here. He receives their permission to negotiate a settlement. We watch him cross no-man’s land between us and the troops and talk to the soldiers. We’re afraid he’s going to be killed, beaten, or arrested, but he returns after half an hour and reports that he’s made a deal. The Martial Law troops will allow a one-time exit out the southeast corner of the Square. But anyone who stays behind won’t be protected.

The protest organisers, now led by 21-year-old “commander-in-chief” Chai Ling, gather to discuss their response. There’s intense disagreement. Some want to leave and live to fight another day. Others want to occupy the Square to the end.

“How about a compromise,” Chai Ling proposes, “Those who want to leave can leave, those who choose to stay can stay.”

They all agree and communicate their decision to Professor Liu, who goes back and conveys it to the troops. An agreement is finalized. The students are promised safe passage out the southeast corner of the Square.

Tiananmen has been occupied nonstop for almost eight weeks. Beijing police stopped working a month ago and the capital’s crime rate went down. It’s the closest thing to pure community I ever expect to see. Now it’s ending this tragic way. It feels like the death of idealism and innocence.

4:30 a.m. June 4, 1989

The students link hands, form two columns, and walk toward the southeast corner of the square. They circle around the east side of Chairman Mao’s Mausoleum. I walk alongside them. But before all the students make it off the monument, the troops start moving. Their first target is the Goddess of Democracy statue facing Chairman Mao’s portrait at the front of the square. A tank rolls forward, topples the statue and crushes it.

Then all the tanks and troops move toward the tent city standing between them and the Monument. The scene resembles what I witnessed earlier in the night—people running chaotically ahead of the armoured vehicles and soldiers, shouting, and the staccato burst of gunfire.

Students remaining on the Monument are broadcasting the socialist anthem The Internationale on the public address speakers they installed when the protests started. I pay attention to the words for the first time: “This is the final struggle. Let us group together and create a brighter future for humanity.”

The tanks roll over the tents, perhaps killing people still inside them, and toward the monument. Soldiers fire at the speakers to stop the music. Bullets crash into the metal but the music continues for what seems like minutes. Then the speakers start to drone and finally go silent.

The sky is getting light as I leave the Square with the students. We pass through an opening the soldiers make and then the line of tanks and troops closes behind us.

We head west and begin the 7.5-mile walk back to the Haidian university district.

At the first intersection, Liubukou, we turn north. Walking up the narrow alley, we see a line of troops pour in from the Avenue of Eternal Peace and head toward us. They fire tear gas and we fall to the ground. Then I hear the terrifying rumble of tanks. There’s no place to run. I claw my way over a sidewalk divider just in time. Those who remain behind are crushed.

I’ve taken enough risk. I run back to Justice Lane and get my motorcycle. Then I speed to catch up with the survivors continuing their march to campus. I offer a ride to a female student who looks too exhausted to walk. She gratefully accepts.

We retrace my path of the night before. Riding west on the Avenue of Eternal Peace, the scene resembles a war zone. Burned-out tanks, smouldering military vehicles, articulated bus shells, dead bodies. The stench of fire and death is overwhelming.

The chaos stretches the entire length of the Avenue. At Muxidi we see the extent of the night’s violence. Even the high officials’ residences have dead and wounded. People gather in groups on the street wailing at the tragedy and yelling angry epithets.

“Liumang Zhengfu—Criminal Government!” One man’s words sum up the sentiments of all.

Xiao Hong (Little Red), the girl on my bike, weeps softly behind me.

The overcast sky mirrors the desolate scene all around us. Suddenly a smouldering military vehicle’s gas tank catches fire and kaboom! it explodes. We both jump at the loud noise.

I finally make it to the entrance of Beijing University. For the first time I’ve ever seen, there are no guards on duty at the gate. Outside the university health clinic dead students are on display. They’ve been shot to death, parts of their heads and bodies blown off. The dozen corpses are laid out on blocks of ice. People are whispering and crying. Xiao Hong doesn’t even look. In a barely audible whisper she thanks me for the ride and walks to her dorm.

It’s afternoon now. My cell phone battery is dead, so I can’t call in any more reports. I decide to go back to the office.

I ride back downtown on the Second Ring Road. As opposed to the city streets, the highway is free of wreckage. But tanks and soldiers have set up checkpoints at every overpass. When they see that I’m a foreigner they wave me through.

I arrive back at the UPI office and stumble through the door. Dave, deputy bureau chief Mark DelVecchio, Delhi bureau chief Jonathan Landay and our local staff are huddled over computers pounding out stories. The room is choked with cigarette smoke. When they see me they all jump up at once.

“When we didn’t hear from you for so long we thought something bad happened,” Dave says.

“My cell phone battery died this morning while I was on the Square.”

They all look at me strangely. I glance down and see that my clothes are ripped and covered in blood.

“Are you hurt?” Dave asks.

“No, this is other people’s blood.”

They guide me to a chair and someone hands me a cup of tea. I gulp it down. I haven’t had any water, never mind eaten, in close to 24 hours. I’m exhausted and numb. But I give them a rundown of everything I witnessed. I find out that what I saw took place all across the capital. There was a massacre in Beijing. The Chinese Red Cross reported 2,000 dead, with a detailed breakdown of casualties hospital by hospital. Then the military moved into all medical facilities before dawn, stopped the counting, and even fired on medical personnel who were trying to help the wounded.

When I hear this news I start to cry. But then I compose myself and finish my account.

I haven’t slept in 72 hours.

“Is it okay if I go to sleep?” I ask.

“Sleep. Sleep,” Dave tells me. “We’ve got things covered and this story is just starting.”

I stagger across the hall and push open the door of my apartment. I collapse on the bed in my bloodstained clothes and immediately fall asleep.

Scott Savitt, a former Beijing-based foreign correspondent, is the English-language translator for China Dialogue, a think tank run by Tiananmen protest student leader Wang Dan. He is the author of Crashing the Party: An American Reporter in China.