Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

The reeds are taller than a person.

He Yuzhu lay prone in the muddy water, his chin and below completely submerged. His left leg wound had been soaking for almost two hours; the skin and flesh were swollen, and the pain wasn't sharp—it was dull, muffled, like someone was poking it with a fire poker, again and again. He turned his head to the side, letting his ear peek above the water, to listen to the sounds from the opposite bank.

The generator hummed intermittently. A section of reeds peeked out from the top of the tent; it was canvas, and its surface gleamed a dark gray in the moonlight. Two sentries stood at the entrance, rifles hanging at their sides, taking a few steps, stopping, taking a few steps, stopping again—they were exhausted.

Chen Dashan was soaking in the water three meters to his right. He glanced at He Yuzhu, said nothing, and only pointed to his chin—the water was about to overflow.

He Yuzhu ignored him.

He pulled out his low-light night vision goggles from his waterproof bag and attached them to his eyes. The world through the goggles was a hazy green: tents, sentries, several trucks, and antenna masts. He adjusted the focus to maximum clarity and counted the sentry posts: two at the main gate, one at the corner of the tents, and two mobile sentries over the parking lot, patrolling every ten minutes on a fixed route.

He calculated the shift change time three times. The last shift was between 3:40 and 4:00 a.m., with a 15-minute handover period, when the guard duty was at its most relaxed.

He put the night vision goggles back into the waterproof bag and buried his face back into the mud.

3:45.

A thin fog rose over the river, just enough to block the view of the opposite bank.

He Yuzhu pushed forward, his elbows bracing against the muddy ground, inch by inch. The reeds brushed against his face, tickling him. When his left leg was pulled out of the water, the wound scraped against the mud, causing him to gasp in pain—he held that breath in his chest, without making a sound.

He thought of Shen Lian.

Yesterday afternoon, when Shen Lian handed him the roll of waterproof map, his hands were trembling. "This is the only one," Shen Lian said, "Don't get it wet." He Yuzhu wanted to laugh at the time—you scholar, you'll know what "wet" means once you've crossed the river. But now, lying here, he understood what Shen Lian's trembling hands meant. The man wasn't shaking a gun or a cannon, he was shaking a piece of paper.

He pressed the waterproof bag on his chest further in.

Seven people lined up and climbed from the reeds to the riverbank, then slid into the Qingchuan River.

The water was colder than where they had been hiding. The moment it poured into his wound, He Yuzhu's scalp tingled, and his vision went black for a moment. He gritted his teeth and didn't scream, one hand paddling in the water while the other protected the bag on his chest—inside were the captured Kodak camera, two rolls of film, and Shen Lian's map.

He swam to the other side, eighty meters, which took him almost twenty minutes.

Yang Xiaobing went ashore first. He lay there listening for thirty seconds, then turned around and gestured: "Safe."

He Yuzhu pushed the waterproof bag ashore first, then climbed up himself. His left leg was weak, so he used his hands to support himself, inching forward until he reached the grass behind the tent. He opened the waterproof bag a crack and felt around—the map was still there, dry.

Chen Dashan was the last to come up, panting heavily. He pointed to his left calf—his pants were torn, and blood was seeping out. It wasn't a gunshot wound, but a cut from a rock in the water; the cut wasn't small.

He Yuzhu gestured to him: Can you walk?

Chen Dashan nodded, tore off half of his trouser leg, and tied it around his wound. He grimaced as he did so, but didn't make a sound.

Voices came from inside the tent. English, sleepy mumbling, then footsteps. The curtain was lifted, and two sentries changing shifts rubbed their eyes as they headed towards the parking lot.

Fifteen minutes.

He Yuzhu raised his hand above his head and gestured to Yang Xiaobing: You keep watch, I'll go in.

He crept along the edge of the tent to the doorway and peered inside.

Two kerosene lamps shone dimly inside the tent. Five rows of folding tables were piled high with paper, a radio, and a typewriter. Two shredders—metal casings, over a meter tall—stood in the inner corner, next to stacks of unprocessed documents. The top few pages had the date printed in the corner: JUL 22.

Nowadays.

He Yuzhu slipped inside and squatted down next to the shredder. He took his camera out of his waterproof bag and started taking pictures of the stack of documents, one by one.

The shutter clicks were very soft. But in the quiet tent, each click sounded like someone crushing a peanut.

When the eighth photo was taken, Yang Xiaobing's signal came from outside the tent—a bird call, very short.

He Yuzhu didn't stop. He flipped over the remaining documents and continued taking pictures. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—

The second bird call. More urgent than the first.

He put away his camera, returned the documents to their place, and turned to feel his way outside. Just as he lifted the curtain, a spotlight from the parking lot suddenly came on, a beam of white light sweeping over him, passing just three inches above his head.

He didn't move.

The beam of light swept across, then swept back, stopping about two meters away from him.

He Yuzhu shrank back into the tent, crouching in the shadows by the curtain. His heart pounded so hard his ribs ached. He heard a sentry shout outside, footsteps growing closer. He glanced down at his chest—his waterproof pouch was askew, a corner of the map peeking out.

He pulled two smoke grenades out of his bag, yanked off the tabs, and threw them toward the other end of the tent.

*Sizzle*—white smoke rose up.

Then came shouts in English: "Fire! Fire!"

He rushed out and disappeared into the bushes. Yang Xiaobing and Chen Dashan were already waiting, and the three of them crawled along the ground towards the riverbank. Behind them, searchlights flickered wildly in the direction of the tents, sentries ran back and forth, and someone fired three signal flares into the sky—red ones that illuminated half of the river.

"quick!"

They slid into the river. The splash sent He Yuzhu's left leg slamming into a rock, the pain making his vision blur. He gritted his teeth and paddled, gripping his waterproof bag with one hand and desperately pulling himself back with the other.

The bullets hit the water's surface, splashing up a series of water jets.

Chen Dashan, to his right, groaned and slowed his movements. He Yuzhu turned his head to look—his left arm was covered in blood, which was flowing down.

"You've been shot?"

"Let's just row over there and see!"

They swam to the middle of the river, and suddenly a row of lights appeared on the opposite bank.

68th Army Artillery Regiment.

Shells flew overhead, landing on the searchlights on the south bank and exploding into bursts of orange-red fireballs. Chaos erupted on the pursuers' side; shouts and gunfire were drowned out by the artillery fire. He Yuzhu looked back—the tent from before was now only half-built, illuminated by the firelight.

He grabbed Chen Dashan, and Yang Xiaobing pushed him from the other side; the three of them swam desperately toward the north bank.

In the last twenty meters, He Yuzhu completely lost feeling in his left leg. He used his arms to support himself on the ground and slowly crawled ashore. He lay there panting for five seconds, then got up again and dragged Chen Dashan.

Chen Dashan lay on the shore, blood still seeping from the wound on his left arm. He looked up at He Yuzhu and grinned, his voice weak as a mosquito's buzz: "Commander... I'm fine... just... a little dizzy."

He Yuzhu ignored him. He opened his waterproof bag, took out his camera, and pressed play.

Seventeen images.

All seventeen photos are still there.

He leaned against the reeds, looking up at the sky. The moon had just been obscured by clouds, and it was pitch black; he couldn't see anything. The bag on his chest was uncomfortable, so he took out the map and glanced at it—the corner was a little damp, but the writing wasn't smudged.

He remembered what Shen Lian had said yesterday: "This is the only portion, don't get it wet."

He folded the map and stuffed it back into the innermost layer of the waterproof bag.

He gasped for breath from the pain in his left leg, but he couldn't tell if it was pain or something else.

Panmunjom, July 23.

He Yuzhu sat in the last row of the audience section. His left leg was wrapped in a newly changed bandage, hidden under the table. He was wearing a borrowed, clean military uniform, the collar of which was tied a little tightly.

Across the negotiating table, Lieutenant General Harrison, the U.S. chief representative, slowly flipped through documents. Three men in civilian clothes sat beside him, one of whom wore gold-rimmed glasses and kept glancing at He Yuzhu.

Shen Lian sat in the first row of the audience seats, with his back to him.

The head of the Volunteer Army delegation pushed the seventeen-page photocopy of the communications log to the center of the table.

"This is a copy of a fragment of your 45th Division's communications log from July 22nd. We have the original." The translator translated. Harrison took off his glasses, wiped them with a cloth, and put them back on. He stared at the stack of papers for a long time.

The entire tent was quiet for about two minutes.

Then he spoke.

"We need to verify the authenticity of these materials," he said in a low voice. "I suggest adjourning the meeting until the 27th."

He stood up, picked up the documents on the table, and walked towards the door. The American delegation followed him, their footsteps so light they were almost inaudible on the carpet.

The curtain was lifted and then lowered again.

The tent fell silent again.

He Yuzhu sat in the last row, watching the curtain sway. Shen Lian stood up from the front row, didn't turn around, and slowly walked towards the door. When he reached He Yuzhu's side, he didn't stop, but simply nodded slightly from a distance.

Then he lifted the curtain and went out.

He Yuzhu sat there, watching the white curtain slowly stop swaying.

My left leg started hurting again.

He glanced down and saw a little blood seeping from the bandage, soaking a small patch of his trouser leg.

He recalled the cold water of the Qingchuan River, Chen Dashan's weak, almost inaudible laugh when he was shot, and the sound of those seventeen photos being snapped one by one in the camera. He remembered taking the map out of his waterproof bag just now; the edges were wet, but the words weren't blurred.

On the 27th.

He looked up at the tent entrance.

Four days left.