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

The commotion traveled dozens of miles, like someone slamming a sledgehammer into their chest—dull, heavy, with a brute force that seemed to tear the earth apart. The regimental command post, dug deep and covered with three layers of wood and a layer of cement, still couldn't withstand the force. Dust fell from above, fine ash billowed up, mingling with the black smoke from the oil lamps, making one's throat tighten. A teacup on the table jumped up by itself, crashing to the ground with a clatter, spilling water everywhere.

He Yuzhu didn't pick it up.

He was pressed against the palm-sized bulletproof glass of the observation slit, his face almost embedded in it. Outside, it wasn't dawn anymore; it was as if the sky's entrails had been ripped out and roasted over a fire. The western mountaintops were shrouded in a persistent crimson blanket of light, beneath which, like demons from the earth, clusters of even more blinding fireballs surged outwards, exploding, expanding, and merging into a sea of ​​flames that devoured everything. The sounds that came through were distorted—not explosions, but the ceaseless rumble of rolling thunder, grinding across the ground, interspersed with sharp, teeth-grinding tearing sounds.

That was a salvo of heavy artillery fire, and a dive bomb attack.

The tremors beneath his feet never stopped, like a bout of malaria, one wave after another. The communications soldier was hunched over the radio and telephone switchboard, his face flushed red, his arm spinning so fast it was almost a blur. All he could hear in the earpiece was static; he couldn't make out anything except the occasional fragmented, distorted word.

"Commander! The phone... the line to the First Battalion is open! Just for a moment!" A communications soldier suddenly looked up and shouted, veins bulging on his neck.

He Yuzhu rushed over and grabbed the receiver. Inside was a sharp electrical noise and a nearly distorted shout, mixed with violent panting and a background explosion:

"...They're all inside! According to plan...they're inside the cave! The outside...it's unbearable to look at! Everything..."

Click. The sound stopped, leaving only a silent dial tone.

He Yuzhu slammed the receiver back, turned around, and spoke as fast as a bullet being loaded:

"Old Geng! Execute Emergency Plan Number Three! Notify all units that can be contacted: 1. Abandon surface positions. All personnel, including observation posts, must retreat to the deepest core tunnels and seal the entrances! 2. Regimental artillery companies, cease test firing and take cover. Do not expose yourselves without my direct orders! 3. Communications platoon, continue attempting to make contact. Immediately dispatch foot messengers to the main tunnel entrances of each battalion—tell them to fight independently, conserve their strength, and await the counterattack signal! 4. The reconnaissance platoon, select the most astute veterans to advance through the secret flank passage to the limit of visibility of Shangganling. Do not engage the enemy; only note the enemy's troop strength, tanks, and attack routes. Return when the opportunity arises!"

The orders were roared down. People ran through the swirling dust like tightly wound springs. Political Commissar Zhao helped organize the command slips, his fingers trembling slightly, but the handwriting was still neat. Old Geng, gripping his submachine gun, stood guard at the entrance, his eyes wide as he listened to the hellish symphony outside.

Time is the most precious thing at this moment. You feel like you've endured half a lifetime, but when you look at the clock, only ten minutes have passed.

The devastating artillery fire continued for over an hour before slowly turning back towards the rear of the battle line, like a satiated behemoth. But the sky in the direction of Shangganling was already shrouded in thick smoke, and the firelight flickered in the depths of the smoke and clouds, like the eyes of a dying behemoth unwilling to close.

As soon as the artillery fire extended, a new and more ominous tremor came from the front line—not an explosion, but the muffled thud of countless feet pounding the earth, mixed with the crunch of tank tracks crushing gravel, washing over like a tide.

"They're up!" someone shouted in a trembling voice.

He Yuzhu rushed back to the observation slit. Through the settling dust, a yellowish-green wave surged from the opposite hillside—not a skirmish line, but a dense, dark mass of square formations, forming battalions and regiments. Dozens of iron-gray tanks charged ahead, like the prows of ships cleaving through turbid waves. The targets were clear: 597.9 and 537.7, those two hilltops already blasted beyond recognition.

"Our cannons..." Old Geng's throat went dry.

"It's not time yet," He Yuzhu interrupted, his voice as cold as iron. "Tell the tunnel troops: Hold your ground. Let them get close and fire, fire only when they're right under their noses. Firing now is just setting a target for the enemy. Let them fight the tunnel entrance first."

He stared at the approaching tide. The enemy clearly believed the recent storm of steel had wiped out all life. The formation was dense, they practically charged forward on the craters. The lead tanks began mowing down the ruins with their machine guns, followed by infantry, some even straightening their backs.

The tidal wave's vanguard finally crashed into the meat grinder.

The anticipated surface resistance did not materialize immediately; the attackers hesitated for a moment, but did not halt their advance. It wasn't until the lead soldier had almost stepped onto the edge of the trench, which was buried under loose soil—

From those seemingly lifeless scorched earth and behind the collapsed piles of rocks, countless blazing tongues of fire suddenly erupted!

Machine guns, submachine guns, rifles, and bundles of grenades hurled from firing ports in the trenches, raining down on the enemy ranks. The distance was so close, face to face, the muffled thud of bullets piercing flesh and the blast waves of explosions instantly engulfing the front lines.

The attack surged abruptly, the front ranks crumbling as if hitting a reef. But those behind, stepping over the bodies of their comrades, continued to surge forward under the shouts of officers and the cover of tank fire. The battle instantly devolved into a brutal close-quarters struggle. Some tunnel entrances were discovered by the enemy, who unleashed grenades and flamethrowers. In some places, soldiers even leaped out of the tunnels, clutching explosive charges, and charged at the tanks.

He Yuzhu clenched his fists tightly, his nails digging into his palms. He stared at every flash of light on the hilltop miles away, every burst of gunfire representing a life-or-death struggle. He knew the surface positions couldn't be held—the enemy was too numerous, their firepower too overwhelming. What he needed was time, wear and tear, to make the enemy pay a bloody price for every advance, while simultaneously protecting the seeds in the tunnels.

"Regimental artillery company." He grabbed the phone, which had finally been reconnected to the artillery position on the back hill, his voice hoarse from tension. "Target: enemy follow-up echelon assembly area, coordinates XX, YY. Five rapid fires, fire!"

A brief "Understood!" came from the other end of the phone.

A few seconds later, a sharp whistling sound swept overhead, landing on the rear half of the enemy's attacking force, kicking up clouds of dust and temporarily disrupting the reinforcements' rhythm.

The first day passed in this life-or-death struggle, from dawn till dusk. The sounds of gunfire never truly ceased, sometimes as intense as a torrential downpour, sometimes as sporadic as a cold drizzle.

As night fell, the scouts crawled back, covered in blood, bringing back a cold and simple message: most of the surface positions on the two hills had fallen, but most of our tunnels remained, and the people inside were still putting up resistance. The enemy had occupied the surface, but it was like sitting on a volcano.

Preliminary statistics, painstakingly compiled late at night, indicate that the regimental artillery and forward tunnel units, in coordination, inflicted an estimated several hundred casualties on the enemy. As for their own casualties… these are not yet fully tallied, but the tunnel system remains largely intact, and the core forces are still intact.

He Yuzhu slumped in his chair, the back of his head against the cold, damp earthen wall, his eyes closed. His ears were ringing; the hellish roar seemed to have seeped into his brain, never to escape. Everyone in the bunker was exhausted, but no one could sleep. In a corner, Political Commissar Zhao checked the list by the dim light of an oil lamp, pausing as his finger traced each name; Old Geng silently cleaned his gun, his movements mechanical.

[Successfully commanded troops to preserve their strength and effectively inflict casualties on the enemy's attacking forces under extreme conditions on the first day of the battle.]

[The tunnel system thwarted the enemy's attempt to quickly seize positions.]

Battlefield Points: +180,000 points (based on defensive achievements and tactical execution in key battles).

[An extremely high-intensity battle environment has been detected; the base efficiency for points acquisition has been increased by 30% (dynamic adjustment mechanism in effect).]

Battlefield Points: 6,508,398 + 180,000 = 6,688,398 points.

The points jumped to over 680,000. The notification in his mind was calm and undisturbed, but He Yuzhu felt that behind that number was an overwhelming stench of blood and acrid steel.

He pulled out Qin Huairu's notebook, but didn't open it. He just gripped the hard cover tightly, his knuckles turning slightly white, as if trying to draw a wisp of illusory warmth from within. The edges of the cover were worn, stained with dirt that had somehow gotten on it. He suddenly remembered her words when she handed it to him: "Come back alive." That voice now felt as distant as if it were from a past life.

Then he stood up and said to Old Geng and Political Commissar Zhao, who were in the corner:

"Take a break now. Pass the word: repair the fortifications tonight, replenish ammunition, and evacuate the wounded." He paused, his voice lowering, but each word was clear:

"Tomorrow... tomorrow will only be worse."

The gates of hell have only just opened a crack.