He Yuyang: The tough eldest brother of the courtyard house

The harsh winter wind swept across the town's walls like a knife, whipping up snowflakes that stung He Yuyang's reddened face. He stood atop a makeshift watchtower, his binoculars pressed tightly against his eye sockets, the lenses frosted over, obscuring his vision. Yet, the figures huddled behind the crenellations of the city wall were clearly imprinted in his eyes.

"Reporting, Platoon Leader! Brigade headquarters has ordered a general offensive at dawn tomorrow!" The communications officer's voice was carried by the wind, sounding somewhat scattered, with the urgency characteristic of a young man.

He Yuyang put down his binoculars, exhaled a puff of white breath, and rubbed his hands—just yesterday, he had been promoted to platoon leader of the third platoon for his meritorious service in breaking through the enemy lines on a snowy night, and the burden on his shoulders had become even heavier. Looking at the county town shivering in the cold before him, his heart felt heavy: "Understood. Have each squad check their equipment again. Get a good rest tonight."

The communications officer ran off at the sound of his voice, and Zhao Dayong approached him, clutching a frozen cornbread in his hand, crunching it loudly. "Brother, no, I should call you platoon leader now!" He chuckled twice, then lowered his voice, "This county town doesn't look very big, but the city walls are very sturdy. I heard the garrison commander is a tough guy named Zhang Qishan. It's said that he eats and lives with the soldiers, and everyone under him respects him."

He Yuyang nodded. They had been besieging the city for three days. In those three days, they hadn't fired a single shot or cannon, not because they couldn't take it, but because they couldn't bear to—the city contained not only enemy troops, but also tens of thousands of civilians. The brigade's scouts had long since learned that although Zhang Qishan was a regimental commander in the Kuomintang army, he wasn't one to disregard human life. During the six months of defending the city, he had frequently opened granaries to distribute food to the people, and had even severely punished soldiers who looted.

"A direct assault would result in too many casualties." He Yuyang looked at the rooftops faintly visible inside the city walls. "Not only our people, but the people in the city will also suffer."

Just then, the second squad leader ran up from below, carrying a prisoner who was bound hand and foot. The prisoner was wearing enemy uniforms, his face was blue from the cold, but he stubbornly refused to bow his head. "Platoon leader, this kid jumped down from the city wall, saying he was trying to 'spy on military intelligence,' and our sentries caught him."

He Yuyang sized up the prisoner. He looked young, maybe twenty at most. The cuffs of his uniform were frayed, and his shoes had patches—he didn't seem like a spy, but rather an ordinary soldier. "What's your name? Which unit are you from?"

The prisoner turned his head to the side and remained silent.

Zhao Dayong kicked him: "I'm asking you a question! Are you mute?"

"Don't do it." He Yuyang stopped him, taking out a steamed bun that was still warm from his body—it was made with spiritual spring water and steamed until soft. "Eat something first."

The prisoner was stunned for a moment, clearly not expecting this treatment. His stomach growled, but he still stubbornly insisted, "Who wants your things!"

He Yuyang shoved the cornbread into his hand: "Even enemies need to eat. I know you don't have much food left in the city, Commander Zhang can't let you defend the city on an empty stomach, can he?"

These words seemed to strike a nerve with the prisoner. His eyes reddened, and his hand clutching the cornbread trembled slightly: "Our commander... our commander has shared all his rations with the brothers. He only drinks thin porridge every day..."

He Yuyang's heart skipped a beat: "Has your regimental commander been preoccupied with something lately?"

The prisoner hesitated for a moment, looked at the cornbread in his hand, and finally spoke: "Our regimental commander's wife is very ill and is staying in the church hospital in the city. I heard she's not going to make it... He's been very absent-minded these past few days, and yesterday he was even crying on the city wall..."

He Yuyang and Zhao Dayong exchanged a glance, both seeing a glimmer of hope in each other's eyes. He untied the prisoner's ropes: "If you want to go back, I can let you go. But you have to pass on a message to Commander Zhang."

The prisoner was stunned: "You're really letting me go?"

"Really." He Yuyang nodded. "But you have to tell the truth, what exactly is wrong with Commander Zhang's mother?"

"It's...it's tuberculosis," the prisoner lowered his head, his voice hoarse. "The medicine in the city ran out a long time ago, and the foreign doctor said...that there's no effective cure, we can only tough it out..."

He Yuyang had an idea. He told Zhao Dayong to take the prisoners to the kitchen for a hot meal, and then turned to walk towards his tent—the medicinal garden in his space was full of good things, including several century-old ginseng and fritillaria bulbs, all watered with spiritual spring water, which were perfect for treating tuberculosis.

Once inside the tent, he slipped into his spatial dimension. The herb garden was warm and inviting, the lush green herbs growing perfectly. Several old ginseng plants were tied with red rope, their roots thick and their whiskers intact. He carefully dug one up, then picked some fritillaria cirrhosa and ophiopogon japonicus, carefully wrapped them in oiled paper, and then wrapped them in thick cotton cloth to prevent them from freezing.

When he came out with the medicine kit, Zhao Dayong had already brought the prisoner back. The prisoner had clearly been reformed; the hostility in his eyes was gone. "Our commander is a good man," he said, looking at He Yuyang, "You...you mustn't hurt him, okay?"

"We are the people's army, we don't harm good people." He Yuyang handed him the medicine packet. "Take this to Commander Zhang and tell him it's a highly effective medicine for tuberculosis. Also, please take a letter for me."

He asked the clerk to bring paper and pen, and wrote a few lines in the cold wind:

"Commander Zhang's Commentary:"

I have long heard that you love the people like your own children, and that your defense of the city is not for personal gain, but because military orders are hard to disobey. Now that I hear your mother is seriously ill, I have prepared some medicine in the hope that it can temporarily alleviate her pain.

The defenders of the city do so to protect its inhabitants; our army attacks the city to save all people from suffering. Though their goals differ, their initial intentions are the same. If we can open the city gates and accept surrender, thus preserving the city's life and sparing its people from the ravages of war, it would truly be a meritorious deed.

Our army promises that if you are willing to lead your troops to surrender, we will ensure the safety of our soldiers and ensure that your mother can have a peaceful end.

Respectfully submitted by He Yuyang, Platoon Leader of the Third Platoon of the People's Liberation Army.

The prisoner took the letter and medicine packet, clutched them tightly to his chest, and bowed to He Yuyang: "I will definitely deliver the message!" After saying that, he ran towards the city wall under the cover of night.

Watching his retreating figure, Zhao Dayong asked worriedly, "Brother, what if this kid's lying to us?"

"He won't." He Yuyang looked at the city wall. "A soldier who can shed tears for his commander still has a conscience."

For the next three days, neither side made a move. The enemy troops on the city wall continued to stand guard, but no longer fired sniper shots; the People's Liberation Army outside the city remained still, with only occasional cooks bringing porridge to the foot of the city wall, calling out, "This is for the people. If Commander Zhang doesn't mind, let the brothers have some too."

On the evening of the third day, He Yuyang was distributing warm cotton-padded clothes to the soldiers—thick and warm, again taken from his spatial storage—when he suddenly heard a commotion coming from the direction of the city wall. He quickly climbed the watchtower and saw the city gate slowly open, and a middle-aged man wearing a Kuomintang army colonel's uniform walked out, followed by several guards holding white flags.

"That's Zhang Qishan!" Zhao Dayong's eyes lit up.

He Yuyang felt relieved and jumped down from the watchtower to meet Zhang Qishan. Zhang Qishan looked older than he had imagined, with gray hair at his temples and deep-set eyes, but he stood ramrod straight. He stopped a few steps away from He Yuyang, clasped his hands in a fist salute, and said, "Platoon Leader He is so young, yet you understand the meaning of 'benevolence and righteousness' better than I do."

"Commander Zhang, you flatter me." He Yuyang returned the salute. "I only did what I was supposed to do. Your mother..."

"Thank goodness, I'm much better." A hint of gratitude flashed in Zhang Qishan's eyes. "The medicine you sent really worked. The foreign doctor said I'm like a completely different person. She even told me to thank you, saying that the People's Liberation Army are good people." He paused, his voice a little hoarse. "I've already had the brothers lay down their weapons. The people in the city are all fine, and we have enough food to last for a few more days."

"The brigade headquarters has prepared food, which will be sent into the city tomorrow," He Yuyang said. "Don't worry, Regiment Commander Zhang, we welcome your brothers who want to join the army; those who want to go home will be given travel expenses, and we will never force them."

Looking at his young yet composed face, Zhang Qishan suddenly smiled: "I understand now why you were able to win battles. It's not because your guns are better than ours, but because you have the people in your hearts." He turned to the soldiers on the city wall and shouted, "Brothers, from today onwards, we are no longer the Kuomintang army, but soldiers fighting for the people!"

A cheer erupted from the city wall, and many soldiers wept with emotion. From inside the city gates, people poured out, carrying hot water and steamed buns. An elderly woman, her steps faltering, approached He Yuyang and handed him a pair of handmade cloth shoes: "Good boy, warm your feet..."

He Yuyang accepted the cloth shoes. The shoes were embroidered with simple patterns, the stitches neat and tight, and his heart warmed. Looking at the welcoming crowd and the enemy soldiers who had laid down their weapons, he suddenly understood the meaning of Zhou Zhengguo's words—"A general must possess both wisdom and courage." Sometimes, a victory doesn't require guns and cannons, but only a heart that cares for the people.

That evening, the brigade headquarters held a celebration meeting, announcing He Yuyang's promotion to deputy company commander. The soldiers lifted him up and tossed him into the air, cheers echoing through the night. Zhao Dayong, holding a gourd of wine, grinned from ear to ear: "I knew you were the best! What's that called again? Oh right, winning hearts and minds!"

He Yuyang took a sip of wine, gazing at the moonlight outside the window. He thought about Zhang Qishan's mother's illness, the smiling faces of the city's inhabitants, and the prisoner who delivered the medicine—perhaps this was the meaning of their war. It wasn't for promotion, nor for military merit, but so that the old woman could peacefully sew shoe soles, so that the young soldiers could return home to farm, and so that mothers everywhere could watch their sons grow up safely.

"Where to next?" Zhao Dayong asked, leaning closer.

He Yuyang looked at the next target marked on the map, his eyes resolute: "Southward, liberate more places."

The cold wind was still blowing, but the fire inside the tent burned brightly, illuminating the young faces of the soldiers. He Yuyang touched the cloth shoes in his arms, and then thought of the seeds in his space that he hadn't had time to plant yet—after the war, he would scatter those seeds all over this land, so that every inch would grow crops and hope.

The best strategy is to win hearts and minds; it's not about conquering the enemy's cities, but about winning their hearts. It's not about defending your own territory, but about ensuring the peace and tranquility of the people.

They fought this battle with increasing clarity and strength, because they knew that behind them stood countless people yearning for peace.