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

The order came without warning.

The midday sun was blazing, and dust swirled across the recruit camp's parade ground. New recruits, still panting after their tactical crawling drill, lay sprawled on the ground, drenched in sweat. Even the usually stern-faced Li was squatting in the shade, wiping the sweat from his shiny forehead with his hat.

A division jeep, kicking up clouds of dust, sped into the camp gate and screeched to a halt beside the earthen platform. Two officers jumped out, their faces tense, and headed straight for the camp headquarters. A few minutes later, a broken horn crackled with static, and the battalion commander's voice was hoarse and heavy:

"Emergency assembly! The entire battalion! Immediately! Right now!"

There was something different about that sound. It was hard and heavy.

Li, with a dark face, stood up abruptly, pulled on his hat, and his fatigue vanished instantly, his eyes sharp as an eagle's.

The camp erupted in chaos. Packing backpacks, rolling up blankets, checking weapons—all actions were carried out amidst suppressed noise—astonishingly fast, yet utterly chaotic. No one explained, but the tension in the air and the solemn expressions on the officers' faces made it clear even to the slowest recruits.

It's about to move.

He Yuzhu silently gathered his belongings, carefully hiding the silver coins on his person; his system space remained empty. He glanced at Wang Dazhuang, who was frantically stuffing his socks into his lunchbox, and reached out to help him straighten his backpack straps.

Wang Dazhuang looked up, his lips pale: "Weiguo, where...are we going?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer, but patted his shoulder hard.

At the front of the line, Li, with his dark face, stood ramrod straight, his gaze sweeping over each tense and bewildered face.

"Enough with the nonsense! The order is here—the entire recruit battalion will be reinstated to the 38th Army!" He paused. "Do you know the 38th Army?"

A few scattered responses came from below: "Long live the army..."

"Yes, Long Live the Army!" The stern-faced Li raised his voice, "Now it's our turn! This isn't training, this isn't an exercise! This is real combat! Destination—North Korea!"

As the word "North Korea" was uttered, suppressed gasps filled the ranks.

"Scared?" Li sneered. "It's not too late to get lost if you're scared now! Anyone who wants to be a coward, step forward!"

No one moved.

"Good! Not bad, you've got some nerve!" Dark-faced Li nodded. "Dismissed! Board the vehicles at the camp gate in half an hour! Remember, you're now with the 38th Army! Don't embarrass me!"

There was no farewell party, no red flowers.

Several tarpaulin-covered trucks rumbled in. The group silently climbed aboard, their backpacks and weapons clattering against the truck bed. He Yuzhu sat at the back of the truck, his back against the cold metal, watching the barracks, the training ground, and the figure of the dark-faced Li standing like a nail—growing smaller and smaller until finally disappearing into the dust.

All the way north.

Trains turned into trucks, trucks into walking. The further north they went, the colder and the stronger the wind became. The scenery along the roadside grew increasingly desolate: bombed-out houses, charred trees, and gaunt-faced North Koreans carrying bundles southward. The air smelled of burning, and something else—an indescribable, inexplicable odor.

No one sang, no one spoke. Only footsteps and panting could be heard. Every face was covered in dust and exhaustion, only their eyes shone, or rather, they were forcing themselves to stay awake.

In the evening, the group stopped by the river.

The river was wide, its current gentle and dark green. The mountains on the opposite bank rose and fell, shrouded in twilight. The railway bridge was damaged, and engineers were busy at work. More troops gathered on the riverbank, a dark mass, waiting silently.

Yalu River.

There was no mobilization, no farewell toast. The cadres silently distributed: five frozen potatoes, as hard as rocks, and two pairs of brand-new but thin straw sandals to each person.

He Yuzhu stuffed the potatoes into his arms, trying to warm them with his body heat. He changed into new straw sandals and put the old ones back in his backpack. The river murmured softly at his feet.

The team began crossing the river. They avoided the main bridge, leaving their equipment there. Instead, they crossed a makeshift pontoon bridge built by downstream engineers. The bridge was narrow and swayed violently. The river rushed by; no one looked down, all eyes fixed on what lay ahead—that unfamiliar, dark land.

Step by step.

As He Yuzhu stepped onto the soil of the north bank, he sensed something had changed. It wasn't the soil, but the air, the smell, the invisible force enveloping him. It was colder, and the acrid smell in the wind was clearer, mingled with gunpowder smoke and the raw, metallic tang of metal.

This is North Korea.

Without stopping, the troops crossing the river were incorporated into a larger marching column and advanced into the deeper darkness. The night march was silent and without light. Only the rustling of footsteps on the frozen earth and the hushed transmission of commands could be heard.

He Yuzhu narrowed the reconnaissance map's area to fifty meters to conserve his energy. On the map, dense white dots stretched endlessly in all directions. Occasionally, a mounted communications soldier's dot would flash by.

After marching for two or three hours, we entered an open valley. The moon was hidden behind the clouds, with only faint starlight and extremely low visibility.

Sudden--

A deep, unfamiliar roar came from the highest sky, approaching at an alarming speed!

"Aircraft! Scatter! Take cover!" A roar erupted from ahead.

The team rushed towards the ditch and its embankment in an instant. He Yuzhu rolled into the shallow ditch with Wang Dazhuang.

But it's too late.

Several blinding white orbs of light were tossed from the night sky, swaying and moving with a cruel slowness—flares! They hung in mid-air, illuminating the valley below in a ghastly white light! People, livestock, and equipment on the ground were all exposed, their shadows stretched and distorted.

"It's an American plane! Lie down and don't move!" the veteran roared.

The roar turned into a sharp whistling sound, pressing down from above! Several dark shadows swept past at low altitude.

"Da da da da da—!!!"

The scorching bullet belt lashed the ground like the Grim Reaper's whip! Soil and gravel exploded, scattering hot fragments everywhere! Screams drowned out the roar of the machine guns, only to be drowned out by even denser fire.

He Yuzhu lay prone at the bottom of the ditch, his face buried in the cold earth. The vibrations of bullets echoed, the thuds of bullets piercing the soil were close at hand. Not far away, the muffled sounds of gunfire and short, piercing cries were deafening. The air was filled with the stench of gunpowder, dust, and blood.

After a volley of fire, the planes roared into the distance. The flares were still burning, their light still shining.

"Check for casualties! Don't move! There might be more!" The officer's voice trembled.

He Yuzhu slightly raised his head, squinting to adjust to the bright light. Wang Dazhuang, his face as white as paper, clung tightly to his arm. The rest of the people lay prostrate, groans rising from the crowd.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw—twenty meters ahead of the ditch, on the edge of the roadbed, a very young soldier stood stiffly, staring blankly at the slowly descending flare, oblivious to the deadly light he was exposing himself to. Completely exposed!

idiot!

Before the thought even formed, the action was already taken.

The second roar of engines returned, and the shadow of death loomed once more. In that instant, He Yuzhu sprang out of the ditch like a spring! Against the flow of people, he lunged at the terrified little soldier!

"You're asking for it! Get down!" The roar was drowned out by the howling wind.

The young soldier snapped out of his daze, his eyes brimming with fear, but his feet were rooted to the spot. He Yuzhu had already rushed in front of him, lunged forward, and rolled over with him on the ground!

Almost simultaneously, at least two intersecting tongues of fire licked across the spot where they had stood! Sparks flew from the rocks! Scorching air currents and boulders crashed down.

He Yuzhu carried the young soldier down the slope and rolled into a nearby shell crater. As soon as they landed, more bullets swept in, splattering around the edge of the crater and sending dirt flying and choking them. He pressed the young soldier firmly beneath him, his back stinging from something violently tearing at his cotton-padded coat—probably from gravel or stray bullets.

The planes roared past again, disappearing into the distance. The flares finally burned out, the light vanished, and the world was plunged back into darkness. Only the smell of gunpowder and the groans, cries, and shouts tore through the night sky.

He Yuzhu, panting heavily, got up and touched his back—his cotton-padded coat was ripped open, exposing the cotton, and there were abrasions on his skin but no blood. The young soldier lay in the shell crater, tears streaming down his face as he looked at him.

Wang Dazhuang scrambled over, his face ashen, his voice trembling: "Weiguo! You...you fucking want to die?!"

He Yuzhu slowly crawled out of the crater, standing in the darkness filled with drifting dust. He brushed the dirt off his body and touched the back of his tattered cotton coat. A cold wind rushed into the breach, making him shiver.

He turned to look at the still-shaken Wang Dazhuang, then at the chaotic scene of rescuing the wounded around him, and at the faint light of death that might shine again in the darkness.

His face was expressionless, with only a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"life?"

The voice wasn't loud and was mixed in with the noise, but Wang Dazhuang heard it clearly.

"From the moment I crossed the river," He Yuzhu paused, exhaling white breath, "this fate no longer belonged to me."

He bent down, helped the limp soldier up, and handed him to the medic who had run over. Then he silently walked back to the ditch, picked up his dropped backpack, and patted it off.

Amidst the officers' shouts, the troops struggled to regroup, count heads, help the wounded, and bury the dead. They continued their march into the deeper, colder darkness.

He Yuzhu walked in the ranks, his tattered cotton coat fluttering in the cold wind. His back ached from the scrapes.

But those eyes, in the darkness, were more terrifyingly bright than flares.

The night in North Korea is still long.