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

The scorched earth of Dingziyan was still warm, and the enemy's retaliatory artillery fire came intermittently, blasting up smoke and dust on the hilltop like a seizure. The soldiers of the reconnaissance battalion huddled in the broken fortifications and the newly repaired foxholes, all exhausted, their eyelids heavy and drooping, but their hands gripping their guns dared not relax for a moment.

Just then, the division's logistics officer rushed up through a lull in the artillery fire, panting as he delivered a batch of supplies. Besides enough fried noodles to last two days and a pitiful amount of ammunition, there was also a bulging military mailbag with "To He Weiguo, Reconnaissance Battalion" scrawled on it.

He Yuzhu and Lao Geng were squatting in the half-collapsed camp headquarters, analyzing a worn map to determine the enemy's possible next attack direction. Upon seeing the mailbag, he paused, wiped the dust from his hands, and took it. The bag was quite heavy, containing a thick stack of letters and a square, hard object.

He first took out the hard object—a small wooden plaque painted red with the four yellow characters "Glory to Military Families" written on it, and the signature of the street where he lived in Beiping. The plaque was crudely made, with rough edges, but it felt heavy in his hand.

There were many letters. The top one was in the cheapest yellow straw paper envelope, the handwriting crooked and messy, clearly written by Yu Shui. He Yuzhu carefully opened it; inside was only half a page, with pencil writing mixed with pinyin:

"Brother, I've started school. My teacher praised my handwriting. I told my classmates that my brother is a great hero, fighting the American devils in Korea. They're so envious. Grandma's health is alright, but she keeps talking about you. Last month, Director Wang from the neighborhood committee brought five jin of flour. We made dumplings and saved a bowl for you, which we put on the cupboard in your room... They all went bad. Brother, when are you coming back? I miss you. Rain."

The childish yet earnest handwriting revealed a cautious longing. He Yuzhu's gaze lingered on the three words "left to spoil," as if he could see the deaf old lady staring blankly at the bowl of dumplings that were gradually drying out. A slight softening, and then a bittersweet swelling, welled up inside him. He carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his inner pocket.

The following letters included a standard condolence letter from the neighborhood committee, a greeting from a former apprentice at the steel mill written on his behalf, and two letters with unfamiliar handwriting, addressed to the hometown of the two fallen comrades. He Yuzhu recognized the address and his heart tightened. Opening them, he found they were letters written by the local government, with similar content: informing him that the martyr's compensation had been arranged, expressing condolences, and ending with "The heroic deeds of Comrade He Weiguo, a comrade-in-arms of the martyr, are widely praised, and the people of his hometown are proud of him."

The honor returned to his hometown. This was a good thing, and the pride in Yu Shui's letter stemmed from it. But as He Yuzhu held those two official papers, a vague and inexplicable cloud hung over his heart.

There were also several letters in the bag from other company and battalion commanders in the same division. Some congratulated him on his meritorious service in battle, while others asked him to take care of the veterans who had just been transferred and originally belonged to the enemy forces. These were the rough but genuine exchanges of human relationships on the battlefield.

Finally, there was a carefully wrapped kraft paper package. Inside were several neatly folded domestic newspapers—the *People's Daily* and the *PLA Pictorial*—and a folded notepad with neat, strong handwriting:

"Commander He: My previous conversation and observations have been compiled into an article and published in the newspaper. I've attached a sample copy as a memento. It has generated quite a buzz domestically, I hope you are aware of that. The war is dangerous, please take care of yourself. Qin Huairu"

He Yuzhu opened the People's Daily and saw Qin Huairu's article on a page that wasn't particularly eye-catching but wasn't obscure either. The title was "Resilience and Reflection on the Front Lines—A Heroic Reconnaissance Battalion on the Korean Front." The article didn't lavishly describe the scenes of the charge; instead, it meticulously depicted the medical station after the retreat from Vulture Valley, the long infiltration and instantaneous decisions of the snipers during the sniper fire, the tremors and smoke in the flank tunnels during "Operation Showdown," and even mentioned his words, "Don't just write about the victory, write about the sacrifices too."

The writing is restrained, yet conveys a quiet, truthful weight through the ink. The text makes no mention of his sharp reflections on the roots of war, nor of the doubts surrounding supplies; it only objectively records the troops' battles, casualties, and some of the commanders' "unconventional" tactical choices.

Seeing his name and unit code printed in nationally distributed newspapers, He Yuzhu felt a mix of emotions. For a moment, he felt a sense of relief at being "seen," but more than that, he felt uneasy about being thrust into the spotlight—on the battlefield, reputation can sometimes be a talisman, but at other times it can become a flag that attracts unwanted attention.

Sure enough, two days later, the division's communications officer delivered another document. This time it wasn't a commendation order, but rather an internal circular from higher authorities forwarded by the division's Party Committee. The entire document emphasized strengthening ideological education and consolidating unity among officers and soldiers, but one section contained harshly worded words: "...Comrades who have distinguished themselves in combat must pay special attention to guarding against arrogance and complacency, maintaining a humble and prudent style, and being vigilant against any tendency to become detached from the masses or to become complacent and self-important..."

The notice did not name names, yet it was issued at this time. Combined with Qin Huairu's "very influential" report and Zheng Guotao's face, which seemed to haunt him even after he had left... He Yuzhu could almost smell the atmosphere of scrutiny, suspicion, and vague jealousy directed at him.

He sat down and read the report from beginning to end again. Then he picked up the newspaper Qin Huairu had sent, stacked the two items together, got up, and walked to the metal filing box in the corner that had been seized from the enemy bunker. He unlocked it, threw it in, closed the lid, and locked it with a "click."

He sat back down and remained silent for a long time. Old Geng, who had been watching him the whole time, finally asked in a low voice, "Battalion Commander, are you alright?"

"It's nothing." He Yuzhu shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curving his lips. "It's just that sometimes fighting is simpler. At least you know where the enemy is."

He paused, then said to Old Geng, "When you write home, just mention that I'm doing well, that Yushui should study hard, and that Grandma Deaf should take care of herself. Don't mention anything else—especially the details of your meritorious service in the war. If there's any commotion on the street, just take it in stride and don't make a big fuss about it."

Old Geng nodded solemnly.

Late at night, He Yuzhu leaned alone against the tunnel wall, listening to the sporadic sounds of artillery fire outside. His consciousness sank into the system. Points: 5,643,398. He recalled the two letters from the martyrs' hometowns that day, and the seriously wounded veterans in the camp who might never see the battlefield again.

[Exchange: 50 general-purpose daily necessities vouchers (cloth, food, oil, etc., modeled after local vouchers), -1,000 points.]

Total: -1,000 points.

Battlefield Points: 5,643,398 - 2,000 = 5,641,398 points.

He would anonymously send these items through reliable channels to the families of his two fallen comrades, as well as to several severely wounded veterans in the battalion who were about to return home for resettlement. There was not much he could do; these supplies could not change their fate, but at least they represented his sentiments and offered a thought. War devours lives, leaving behind endless pain and emptiness, and he only wanted to fill that void with some real warmth.

Having done all this, the frustration he felt from the notification seemed to dissipate somewhat. He took out the crumpled letter from Yushui again and read it once more by the dim light of the oil lamp in the tunnel. The child's clumsy handwriting was more powerful than any commendation or internal notification, firmly binding him to his original aspirations of why he stood here and why he had to persevere.

Ahead lie enemy guns and cannons, behind them warm concerns and watchful eyes in the shadows. This path of military merit, paved with blood and fire, seems to grow narrower, more rugged, and more lonely the further one goes.