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

He Yuzhu's left leg underwent three days of dressing changes. The redness and swelling subsided somewhat, but he still dared not exert himself.

He sat on the threshold of the small house in the Kaesong compound, his left leg stretched out and resting on a brick. Inside, the radio crackled, and the cipher clerk, Xiao Sun, was engrossed in copying reports, handing one to the person next to him. That person, surnamed Zhou, was from the delegation's secretariat, in his early thirties, wearing thick glasses that reflected the light, obscuring his eyes.

"Deputy Division Commander He." Secretary Zhou took the last sheet of newspaper, glanced at it, and looked up. "It's done."

He Yuzhu didn't move.

"The US has agreed to the demarcation line. The actual control line on the date of signing will be the standard."

Secretary Zhou handed over the telegram. He Yuzhu took it and looked down at it. The text was densely packed. He scanned a few lines and, seeing the words "120 square kilometers," returned the telegram.

"What about the other two?"

Secretary Zhou pushed up his glasses, a slight smile appearing on his face.

"Regarding the prisoners of war, they originally wanted to add 'interview and investigation.' We slammed the intelligence summary from the Capital Division on the table—the one handed over by the White Tiger Regiment headquarters—it clearly recorded how they interrogated our prisoners. The American representative looked at it, his expression changed three times, and finally said, 'The principle of voluntary repatriation remains unchanged, and no procedural investigation will be added.'"

He paused, lowering his voice.

"The third point concerns the timeframe for convening a postwar political conference. Our people privately confided in the Americans that your Eighth Army's internal assessment had already concluded that Syngman Rhee's group was no longer effective. The Americans paused for half a minute before finally agreeing to write 'within three months.'"

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement.

He looked at the half-dead locust tree in the yard, its leaves withered and drooping in the sun. Cicadas chirped incessantly, their calls irritating him.

"These three points are all thanks to your intelligence." Secretary Zhou finished tidying up the telegrams, stood up, and said, "Advisor Shen said that you shouldn't leave tonight; the delegation might want to invite you to dinner."

He Yuzhu shook his head.

"I still have people on my side who haven't come back yet."

Secretary Zhou paused for a moment, nodded, asked no further questions, and turned to leave.

He Yuzhu sat on the threshold, watching his figure disappear into the courtyard gate.

His left leg started hurting again. He rolled up his trouser leg; the skin around the bandage was still red, and the swelling hadn't completely subsided. The medic said he only needed to change the dressing for two more days, and to avoid strenuous activity and getting it wet.

Do not use force. Do not get it wet.

He thought of the Qingchuan River three days ago, of those seventeen photos, and of Chen Dashan's muffled groan when he was shot. He had put in a lot of effort back then. And he had gotten wet too.

The courtyard fell silent. The faint beeping of the radio drifted from inside the house, like someone hammering nails in the distance.

He Yuzhu took the letter out of his pocket.

The envelope was as soft as an old cloth, its edges frayed. The dried bloodstains had turned a dark brown, scattered in patches like dots marking battlefields on a map. He held the envelope, but didn't open it.

Three years have passed. From Changjin Lake to Shangganling, from Jincheng to Kaesong. I've accumulated a stack of letters, but haven't replied to a single one.

He remembered the date he wrote the last letter. It was snowing heavily that day, so cold he could barely hold the pen. He placed the letter on his knees, wrote it carefully stroke by stroke, and then tucked it into his coat pocket. What did it say in the letter? It seemed to say he would go back after the war. It seemed to say she shouldn't wait for him.

He didn't open it to look at it, but he remembered.

He tucked the letter back into his pocket. His movements were slow, as if he were afraid of hurting something.

Footsteps could be heard at the gate of the courtyard.

Shen Lian walked in, carrying two bottles of soda, glass bottles, emitting a cool breeze. He walked up to He Yuzhu and handed him one bottle.

"Bought from a convenience store in Panmunjom. Made by North Koreans, it's a bit sweet, but it'll do."

He Yuzhu took the bottle; the icy walls made his palm clench. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip. It was indeed sweet, with little carbonation, like sugar water.

Shen Lian sat down next to him and took a sip of his drink. He dusted off his trousers and looked at the locust tree in the yard.

"All three have been approved," he said. "The dividing line was the hardest. The US was adamant about drawing the line according to the July 8th proposal. We showed them the seventeen-page log of the Qingchuan River, and they were silent for almost ten minutes. Guess what? The chief advisor called Harrison out for a few words, and when he came back, he gave in. I heard Harrison was ashen-faced and kicked over the spittoon by the door when he left."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He remembered how those seventeen pages of the diary came about—Chen Dashan lay on the ground, gritting his teeth as he took the last picture, blood flowing down his wrist onto the camera.

Shen Lian turned to look at him.

"How's your leg?"

"Almost done."

Where is Chen Dashan?

"He was sent to a rear hospital. It was a penetrating wound, no bone damage, he should recover in a month."

Shen Lian nodded and took another sip of soda.

After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice lower than before.

"Some people from the delegation asked about the source of this intelligence. I said it was seized from frontline reconnaissance units, but the specific unit is confidential."

He Yuzhu turned to look at him.

Shen Lian met that gaze without flinching.

"I had someone look at your AN/GRC-9. It was an old expert in radio, a professor at Jiaotong University before liberation. He said that its technology is at least five years more advanced than what we use now. Some modules he had to take apart to understand."

He paused.

"I didn't let him open it. I just took pictures and sent it back. I let him look at it first."

He Yuzhu put the soda bottle on the ground.

"What do you want to say?"

Shen Lian remained silent for a few seconds.

"What I'm trying to say is that you have something that's worth more than a few hundred or a few thousand points," he said, looking at He Yuzhu. "But you need to use it in the right place."

He didn't say "use the right people." He left half the sentence unsaid.

He Yuzhu didn't reply. The sound of a car engine approached from afar, growing louder before stopping at the gate of the compound. Someone got out of the car, their footsteps hurried, and ran towards them.

It's Secretary Zhou.

He ran into the yard, his face covered in sweat, clutching a telegram in his hand.

"Deputy Division Commander He! Urgent telegram from the Volunteer Army Headquarters!"

He Yuzhu stood up and took the telegram.

He glanced at it, then looked up.

"When was it posted?"

"Ten minutes ago," Secretary Zhou said, panting, "a nationwide announcement was made: At 10:00 AM tomorrow, the 27th, the chief representatives of both sides will formally sign the agreement at Panmunjom. A ceasefire will be implemented across the entire front starting at 10:00 PM on the same day."

Shen Lian stood up, took the telegram from his hand, and read it through.

"The war is over," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but in the small courtyard, every word carried weight.

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He looked down at the letter he was still clutching in his hand, at the dried bloodstains on the envelope, and at the unopened seal.

Then he stuffed the letter back into his pocket.

"Secretary Zhou," he said, "check if any reconnaissance teams haven't returned yet."

Secretary Zhou was taken aback for a moment, then quickly flipped through the notebook in his hand.

"The 203rd Division reported yesterday afternoon that... all three groups have returned to their original units. The 60th Army too. Our special operations battalion..."

He turned to a page, his finger pausing there.

"Special forces battalion, one three-man team, mission area is south of White Stone Mountain. Originally scheduled to return to base before 18 PM today. Now..." He glanced at his watch, "19:40 PM."

He Yuzhu turned and walked into the house.

Shen Lian called after him, "Where are you going?"

"To pick someone up."

"Are your legs okay?"

He Yuzhu did not turn around.

He walked to the wall, took down the submachine gun, checked the magazine, and tucked two grenades into his belt. He then took out the PRC-6, which had only 2% battery left, from the drawer and put it in his pocket. He pressed it to make sure it was firmly in place.

Shen Lian stood at the door, looking at him.

"What time will you be back?"

He Yuzhu tightened the gun strap on his shoulder.

Before dawn.

He walked out of the house. He paused for a moment when his left leg touched the ground, gritted his teeth, and continued walking forward.

I walked through the courtyard and disappeared into the twilight at the gate.

Shen Lian stood by the threshold, looking in that direction for a long time.

Secretary Zhou asked cautiously, "Advisor Shen, should we notify the front lines...?"

Shen Lian shook his head.

"No need," he said. "He knows what he's doing."

He looked down and saw the two bottles of soda on the ground. One was half-empty, and the other was still full. Water droplets dripped from the bottle walls, soaking a small patch of the muddy ground.

He bent down, picked up the full bottle, unscrewed the cap, and drank it himself.