The transformation of a social system from a state of languid peace to one of compact wartime mobilization is akin to upgrading a computer's operating system from XP to Vista—an agonizing process fraught with crashes, freezes, data loss, and countless other compatibility issues.
If the nation can endure this ordeal, it may emerge with a tightly knit, highly efficient wartime apparatus that channels every ounce of societal resource into the war effort, significantly enhancing the prospects of victory. But should it falter, internal collapse may precede any foreign invasion.
Regrettably, the Song Dynasty was perpetually mired in this very predicament—undone from within. Not once did it possess a functioning wartime mechanism. Throughout the agonizing upgrade process, the vast majority of those in charge—the scholar-officials at the empire's helm—sought only short-term gain, working counter to the national interest, actively sabotaging the transition and ensuring that the system remained forever frozen in peacetime paralysis.
Thus, this splendid yet timid civilization was doomed to stagger from one collapse to another—until it finally succumbed to utter ruin.
Take, for instance, Emperor Qinzong Zhao Huan, who, in a moment of disbelief, discovered that even after the invading Jin army had retreated, the imperial court remained utterly incapable of reclaiming lost territories.
To be specific, they couldn't even manage to send a handful of officials to the fallen prefectures to assume control as "receiving envoys."
"…This is preposterous! The imperial court now commands, at best, a mere ten thousand troops? That figure even includes the palace guards stationed at the royal quarters? Am I the sovereign of a vast empire of millions, or merely the chieftain of some remote and trifling barbarian tribe?"
In the royal study of Bianliang's imperial palace, Zhao Huan, freshly returned from revelry in the pleasure districts of "New Tokyo," struck his desk in fury and bellowed in exasperation, "Are you not aware that if Hebei remains lost for long, the realm will never know peace again?"
"…Your Majesty, though it pains me to speak, the truth is that we are left with but ten thousand soldiers—barely enough to defend the capital," replied Chancellor He Su helplessly. "Though we long for a northern expedition, the empire lacks even the barest means of waging war. What recourse do we have?"
—As readers of Water Margin may recall, the Northern Song once boasted the so-called "Eight Hundred Thousand Imperial Troops," a standing force unparalleled in China's history, exceeding even the martial might of the Han and Tang dynasties. Yet, their combat effectiveness was nothing short of abysmal.
In the Song military hierarchy, the Jin Jun (imperial army) represented the national standing army, the Xiang Jun were akin to regional gendarmerie, and the Xiang Bing the local militia.
Unlike prior dynasties, the "Imperial Army" of the Song did not refer solely to palace guards but encompassed the entirety of the regular armed forces. In theory, it drew its ranks from the regional troops, selecting the most able-bodied for service. Yet by the mid-Song era, these regulations were utterly discarded. Massive conscription from the peasantry became the norm, and the motivations behind recruitment defied belief.
As with all dynasties, the Northern Song periodically endured natural calamities. Every famine would leave in its wake tens, even hundreds of thousands of refugees. If not properly managed, such desperation invariably led to peasant uprisings. Where previous dynasties offered grain or land as relief, the Song took a different route.
At the first sign of famine, the emperor's initial response was not to issue aid, but to dispatch officials with recruitment banners, conscripting the young and able into the imperial army. Thus, after each famine, the size of the Song military swelled dramatically.
Why did the emperors do this? Because they saw concentrated masses of refugees as a dire threat to order. Relief alone was fraught with corruption and mismanagement; any lapse could ignite rebellion. Better, then, to conscript them into the army, where discipline and organization prevailed. The military had barracks, rations, and budgets. In one move, the state quelled unrest and bolstered its ranks—a seemingly perfect solution.
Even if rebellion was contemplated, with the able-bodied men siphoned into the army, only the elderly, infirm, and children remained behind—hardly the stuff of insurrection.
Thus, what began as an elite military force soon decayed into a sprawling refugee camp, a dumping ground for society's failures.
—From Emperor Renzong's reign onward, the imperial army expanded rapidly. By the dynasty's end, it had swollen to over a million men—an unprecedented number. Including the regional and local forces, the total reached a staggering two million. In the capital alone, eighty thousand were stationed—giving rise to the phrase "Eighty Thousand Imperial Troops of Dongjing," immortalized in literature.
But worse still, this "eighty thousand" referred only to soldiers. When one added the accompanying families—wives, children, the elderly—the numbers ballooned. Because recruits were drawn from disaster-stricken populations, many brought entire households.
And so, an absurd scene unfolded: the military barracks of Kaifeng, the Song capital, meant to be bastions of iron discipline, became rowdy domestic quarters, filled with women, children, and the elderly. Soldiers lived openly with their families, even operating food stalls and tea houses—legally sanctioned!
Such a bloated force soon outstripped the state's ability to provide. Military officers, driven by greed, siphoned off soldiers' wages. Destitute and desperate, many deserted. The court, rather than punish them, allowed soldiers to take up trade or farming to support themselves.
With over a century of peace and a thriving economy, the capital's garrison lost all martial ambition. Officers, obsessed with wealth, neglected discipline entirely. Soldiers opened workshops; officers opened illicit brickyards. Soldiers bought land to plant vegetables; officers seized tracts for massive estates. Soldiers relied on family labor; officers turned troops into serfs.
Eventually, the "Great Song Military Enterprise" came to dominate everything from grain markets to brothels—generating personal wealth for officials and saving the state on expenditures, at the total expense of combat effectiveness.
Soldiers, low in status, suffered daily exploitation. Officers routinely embezzled wages, seized property, even violated and trafficked soldiers' wives and daughters—selling them into brothels they themselves operated. Despair led to mass desertion.
At first, the court pursued deserters. But officers soon discovered that empty ranks meant opportunities to falsify payrolls and steal the wages of "ghost soldiers." Many expelled soldiers outright, then invented names to pocket their salaries. Ghosts dead for decades still drew pay. On paper, the garrison appeared full, but in reality, it was a hollow shell.
Thus came the farcical climax: in the first year of Jingkang, the Jurchen cavalry surged across the Yellow River toward Kaifeng. Emperor Qinzong, desperate, finally initiated an audit of the capital's forces. Though records listed 800,000 troops, the audit revealed barely 30,000. Over 770,000 wages had vanished into thin air.
Worse still, even the remaining 30,000 were mostly ceremonial—soldiers in name only.
After a century of peace, not even the old men along the borders recognized the tools of war. The capital's army, though expert in bullying the innocent, lacked any real combat ability.
—In essence, the late Northern Song's imperial army was little better than the decayed bannermen of the Qing—a force entirely unfit for war.
In the recently concluded Second Siege of Kaifeng, the city's defense boasted a supposed 70,000 men, but the majority were conscripted peasant militias, monks, and Taoist priests—untrained, untested, and utterly ineffective outside the city walls.
The actual standing force had started at 30,000. In the first sortie, 10,000 fled. The second assault, though successful, cost nearly all 4,000 elite troops. Successive battles further eroded their numbers. Now, fewer than 10,000 remained, bolstered only by unreliable civilian levies. How could such a force possibly reclaim lost lands?
—If the capital's army is decimated, what of the provincial forces?
The Song's military pressure came primarily from the north, with forces divided between Hebei on the Liao frontier and Guanzhong near the Western Xia.
Since the Treaty of Chanyuan, the Hebei garrisons—like the capital—had seen no action for over a century and were similarly degenerate. Only the Guanzhong forces, hardened by years of warfare against Western Xia, retained any real prowess.
Yet after a year of brutal attrition against the Jurchens, even these had lost over 200,000 men. Another 200,000 deserted. Combined with earlier defeats outside Yanjing, the region lay in ruin.
Shaanxi wept in mourning; its fields lay barren. Every able-bodied man had been conscripted or killed. The remnants were stretched thin defending against Western Xia—there was nothing left to spare.
As for southern garrisons, they were few to begin with and in worse condition. What few capable troops existed had already been summoned to Kaifeng—and promptly annihilated. Jiangnan and Huguang now stood utterly undefended. One new uprising like Fang La's would see hundreds of prefectures fall in days.
Faced with such a dire predicament—an empire utterly devoid of troops—how could the hawkish officials in court possibly mount a northern campaign to reclaim lost territory?
—The Song military relied on a professional mercenary system. There was no reserve force, no conscription infrastructure. Once the regular army was spent, replenishment was slow and difficult. Training, arming, and organizing new forces took at least half a year.
Worse still, as the land lay shattered and the court simmered with dynastic strife…
"…Your Majesty, the Guanzhong forces are bled dry. To pull more troops now would be to hand the western gates to Western Xia. The Hebei and capital troops are already shattered—barely one in ten remain.
"At this moment," Chancellor He Su concluded grimly, "the Great Song stands with no soldiers left to fight."
"Worse still, if I may speak freely—our gravest peril lies not with the Jin barbarians beyond our borders, but within the walls of our very court."