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

In November, the poplar leaves in the Zhisi compound had all fallen. The bare branches poked at the gray sky like countless fingers.

He Yuzhu moved into a small room. It was next to the canteen, and the boiler room was next door; the gurgling sound of the boiler boiling water could be heard from morning till night. When Director Zhou led him in, he pointed to the three-drawer table and said, "The conditions are simple, just make do. If you need any materials, ask the data section." He then pointed to the cot in the corner, "Sleep when you're sleepy at night, no one will check on you."

He Yuzhu threw his luggage onto the bed and sat down. The stack of war case materials on the table was half a person high, with a red stamp on the cover.

Director Zhou walked to the door, then turned back: "Don't be too honest when you write it. Mention what you should mention, and weigh what you shouldn't."

The door closed.

He sat for a while, then opened the top document.

For the first three days, I was so engrossed in reviewing the materials that my eyes were blurry. The detailed battle reports from various units varied in quality, some were detailed, some were rough, and some were written in such illegible handwriting that they looked like scribbles. Lists of captured documents, prisoner interrogation records, artillery firing data tables, communication logs—I read them during the day and thought about them at night. Even lying in bed at midnight, I would ponder how those battles were fought, which steps were correct, and which steps almost cost me my life.

When I got to the part about Jincheng, my hand stopped.

In that battle, he led his small detachment behind enemy lines, lying in wait for three days and three nights. At dawn on the third day, the target appeared—an artillery observation post. Just as he was about to give the order, a recruit lost his footing, and a rock rolled down the slope.

For a second, everyone froze.

The sentry on the other side looked up.

He Yuzhu pointed his gun at the sentry's head, with only one thought in his mind: if he shouts, the whole team will have to leave here.

The sentry took two steps this way, stopped, and unzipped his pants to urinate.

The urination stopped. The sentry turned and went back.

He Yuzhu then realized that his hand gripping the gun was sweaty.

After the war, he asked the new recruit his name and the year he enlisted. The recruit said his name was Li Mantun, from Hebei, and he enlisted in 1952. He Yuzhu said, "You're lucky, kid." Li Mantun grinned, revealing two tiger teeth.

After the battle in Jincheng, Li Mantun did not return.

He Yuzhu wrote this in his report, then crossed it out. He added it again, then crossed it out again. Finally, he left a sentence: "Infiltrating behind enemy lines, every detail determines life or death. Training must strengthen psychological resilience."

Two weeks later, he began to write.

As he wrote, the things he had accumulated over three years poured out like water released from a dam. From his first infiltration behind enemy lines at Chosin Reservoir, to drilling through minefields at Shangganling, to the special operations at Kumsong—they were all lined up in his mind. He locked himself in his room, going nowhere except to the toilet or to get food. The boiler operator in the boiler room later laughed at him whenever he saw him: "Stuck in the boiler room again? Don't get sick from it."

On the twentieth day of writing, the draft was finished.

It was a thick stack of over two hundred pages on the table. He read it through from beginning to end, then again, revised some sentences, added a few examples, and finally copied it clean.

The cover reads: "Summary of Special Operations Experience and Intelligence Acquisition Results in the Battle of Jincheng".

He stared at the line of text, feeling something was off—it was too formal, unlike anything he had written himself.

When Commander Song arrived, it was already December.

The old man, wearing his faded cotton military uniform, pushed open the door and came in. He walked around the room, looked at the materials piled in the corner, then sat down in the creaky chair and picked up his manuscript to read.

He Yuzhu stood beside him, watching him flip through the pages.

Page one, page two, page three… Commander Song read very slowly, sometimes pausing to stare at a particular passage. When he turned to Chapter four, he hummed in agreement and looked up.

"Which battalion carried out this 'guided artillery fire behind enemy lines' operation?"

"Yes."

How many casualties?

He Yuzhu thought for a moment: "Twenty-one went on that mission, and nineteen came back."

Commander Song didn't say anything and continued flipping through the pages.

After flipping through the manuscript for almost an hour, he closed it and put it on the table.

"Did you write this?"

"Um."

Commander Song stared at him for a long time.

"Did you think about these things while you were in the army?"

"I've thought about it. I didn't have time to think about it in detail while we were fighting, but I'll figure it out slowly after the war is over."

Commander Song picked up the manuscript again, turned to a certain page, and pointed to the line: "Reconnaissance forces should extend into the depths of the campaign to guide long-range fire strikes—is that how you fought in Jincheng?"

"Yes, sir. The first battalion will move the artillery observation post, and the second battalion will move the command post."

Commander Song put down the manuscript, stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the gray sky outside.

"Xiao He," he said without turning around, "you're wasting this stuff by leaving it here."

He Yuzhu was stunned for a moment.

"I'll hand it over for you." Division Commander Song turned around. "The General Staff is thinking about the next step of modernization, and these things of yours might come in handy."

He walked to the door, then stopped.

"Is your left leg healed?"

"Almost done."

"It's almost healed, but it's not." Commander Song pushed open the door. "Don't just sit there, you need to move around."

The door closed.

He Yuzhu stood there, looking at the stack of manuscripts, feeling a mix of emotions.

The news came back from Beijing in late December. He Yuzhu was squatting in the sun at the entrance of the canteen when Director Zhou jumped out of the jeep, his face beaming with barely suppressed excitement, and waved to him.

"Your report has been evaluated by a team organized by the General Staff," Director Zhou said in a low voice. "It's caused quite a stir."

He Yuzhu thought for a moment: "What group?"

"From the operations department, the training director's office, the intelligence department, and a few bespectacled tech guys." Director Zhou took out a cigarette, offered him one, and lit it himself. "I heard they had several arguments."

He Yuzhu took the cigarette but didn't light it.

"What's all the noise about?"

Director Zhou took a drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled: "Some people think your stuff is too advanced, the equipment and training can't keep up, and it's impossible to implement even if you write it down. Others think you're too young and inexperienced, and your writings to guide the entire army aren't substantial enough."

He paused.

"But some people speak up for you, saying that these are things earned with lives on the battlefield, which is better than empty talk."

He Yuzhu put the cigarette in his mouth and didn't say anything.

Director Zhou patted him on the shoulder: "The assessment team leader's surname is Zheng, deputy director of the operations department, he was a regimental commander during the War of Resistance. He called Shen Lian—the one investigating you, you know him, right?"

He Yuzhu nodded.

Minister Zheng asked Shen Lian, "The person you were investigating has now become an expert we need. What's your opinion?" Shen Lian replied, "He deserves to be used."

He Yuzhu looked at the ground and didn't move.

Director Zhou threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it out: "With that statement, it will be easier for Minister Zheng to write his conclusion."

He Yuzhu looked at the extinguished cigarette butt and watched the last wisp of smoke rise.

It's worth using.

Shen Lian said it.

January 1954. It snowed heavily in Beijing on the day the ranks were conferred.

He Yuzhu stood at the entrance of the General Staff Auditorium, looking up at the falling snowflakes, white and melting as soon as they hit the ground. He was wearing a borrowed new military uniform, the sleeves of which were a bit long, and he had fastened them with a safety pin before coming.

The auditorium wasn't large, just one story, and could seat two or three hundred people. Less than a hundred people came that day, and they sat scattered in a few rows. A military flag hung on the stage, and a few red flags stood beside it; there were no flowers or a band.

He Yuzhu sat in the last row, on the side, with his left leg stretched out and his foot resting under the chair in front of him. A middle-aged military officer he didn't recognize sat next to him, glanced at him, and then turned away.

When his name was called, he stood up and walked forward.

His left leg was a little stiff after walking in the snow for a while. He walked slowly, but steadily.

An old general stood on the platform, wearing the epaulettes of a lieutenant general. He had a thin face and bright eyes. He handed over the epaulettes of a major general and said one sentence: "Do a good job."

He Yuzhu accepted it and saluted.

There was some applause from the audience, scattered but you could tell they were serious.

He turned to face the audience. He didn't recognize any of the faces, but he recognized a few of the gazes—glancing, complex, and he couldn't tell if it was admiration or something else.

He recalled his early days in Korea in 1950, as a cook who struggled to even pull the bolt of a rifle while carrying a large ladle. He remembered his first time on the battlefield, his legs trembling with fear, unsure of where he'd fired his entire magazine. He remembered the snow at Chosin Reservoir, the scorched earth of Shangganling, and the rainy nights of Jincheng. He remembered those names forever etched in the south—Li Mantun grinned, revealing two prominent canine teeth.

Three years and four months.

He fastened his epaulets and stepped off the stage.

The voice in his head rang out; he hadn't heard it in a long time. He didn't look at the numbers.

As he stepped out of the auditorium, the snow was still falling. Several soldiers were sweeping snow in the courtyard, their brooms making a swishing sound. He stood on the steps, watching the snowflakes fall onto the pine branches, onto the ground, and onto his own epaulets.

Someone called out to him from afar: "Deputy Division Commander He—oh, Major General He, someone is looking for you."

He turned his head.

Shen Lian stood in the shadows of the corridor, without an umbrella, his shoulders covered in a layer of snow.

He Yuzhu walked over.

Shen Lian looked at him for a few seconds.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks."

The two stood there, neither of them moving.

The snow kept falling.

The soldiers sweeping snow in the distance stopped, glanced in this direction, and then turned back to continue sweeping.

He Yuzhu remembered something. That unopened letter was still in his left breast pocket. Three years. Pressed against his heart through his military uniform, he had never opened it, and he didn't know why.

Shen Lian turned and walked into the corridor, but stopped after taking two steps without looking back.

"That letter," he said, "was written by Shen Nian."

Then he walked into the shadows.

He Yuzhu stood in the snow, his hands in his pockets touching the edge of the letter. Snow fell on the epaulets, on the unopened letter, and on the first snow of 1954.

He didn't dismantle it.

I just stood there and watched the snow keep falling.