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

The camouflage netting hung low, and smoke hung heavy in the air.

The pungent smell of tobacco from Northeast China made his eyes sting. He Yuzhu sat against the wall, his left leg too stiff to straighten, the wound throbbing with each heartbeat. He rolled up the blueprints and stuffed them into the crack of the bench.

Yang Yong's pencil fell onto the table.

It was very light. Everyone in the room held their breath.

"It was a call from General Peng last night." He paused, cigarette ash falling onto the edge of the table. "He used force to force talks. If he didn't fight, he wouldn't fight at all; but if he did, it would hurt."

Operations Chief Wang Shuliang got up to change the map. With a rustling sound, the contour lines south of Jincheng were spread out under the lamp.

The chief of staff pointed to the salient bulging northward: "You all know the enemy situation. The front is 25 kilometers. There are four divisions: the puppet Capital Division, the puppet 3rd Division, the puppet 6th Division, and the puppet 8th Division. Their fortifications are not weak, with tunnels and minefields extending 150 to 300 meters in depth, and their artillery system is complete."

他环顾各军长：「67、68、60、54、24、16军。总部配了喀秋莎一个团，坦克三个连，大口径炮一千四百多门。」

He put down his pencil: "There's only one problem. How do we get this piece of meat with the least amount of cost?"

Each military unit began reporting on its readiness status.

The 67th Army reported that ammunition supplies were stuck at Wagangling. The 68th Army reported that the troop shelters had reached the limestone layer, slowing progress by three days. The old commander of the 60th Army, his voice hoarse, said that the ambush area ahead was less than 180 meters from the enemy's front line, and the soldiers had been lying in the grass for three days and three nights without daring to turn over.

A sneeze suddenly came from the corner.

The young staff officer covered his face, his ears turning bright red. No one scolded him. Yang Yong simply switched the pencil to his left hand and continued studying the map. The sneeze, muffled under the camouflage netting, dissipated after a while.

He Yuzhu's eyes were downcast. He was drawing on his knee with a half-pencil—not just for fun. He had led a reconnaissance platoon to explore the seven gullies and four bridges east of Jinchengchuan last year. He could tell with his eyes closed which gully could hide a platoon and which bridge pier could hold explosives.

"Deputy Division Commander He."

Yang Yong looked at him. His gaze fell on the bandage on his leg—freshly wrapped before he left, its whiteness glaringly obvious.

"How are your three battalions doing in training?"

He Yuzhu put down his pen, propped himself up on the stool, and stood up. He strained his left leg, his brow furrowing briefly before relaxing.

"Reporting to the Commander. The Special Operations Battalion has completed its three-month training. It has passed all four subjects: night infiltration, disguise attack, command post raid, and guiding long-range artillery fire."

He pulled out the blueprints from the crack in the bench and laid them on the ammunition box.

The commander of the 68th Army leaned closer, squinting. The map showed a hand-drawn depiction of the terrain around Erqingdong, the contour lines as dense as fingerprints. The enemy regimental headquarters was circled in red ink, and roads, minefields, and reserve positions were marked with a dense array of dots. There was a small water stain next to the red circle—not water. It was sweat, or something else.

The old commander whispered, "What are you doing...?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He pointed to the thin, line-like mountain path southeast of Erqing Cave on the map.

"Commander, have you ever eaten flour made from elm bark?"

Everyone in the room was taken aback.

He didn't wait for a response: "I've eaten it. It was hard to swallow, it scratched my throat, but it filled me up." He paused, "That road was harder to swallow than elm bark. But I can walk it—I've been hungry before, so I'm not afraid of difficult roads."

He withdrew his hand, his fingertips still damp with red ink.

"A frontal assault is an open secret. If the Western Group breaks through, the puppet Capital Division will inevitably retreat to Erqingdong. My plan is for the three major groups to launch a pincer attack simultaneously: the Central Group will attack Jiaoyanshan, the Western Group will attack Hill 552.8, and the Eastern Group will contain the puppet 3rd Division."

He lowered his finger again and slowly slid it along the contour lines on both sides of the Jincheng River.

"The three special operations battalions broke up into smaller units. The chaos that lasted for a minute or two due to the extended artillery fire was penetrated through these, these, these—three gaps."

He looked up.

"The objective is not to occupy territory. It's to locate command posts and artillery positions. There are seven command posts of division level or above in the puppet capital, and I've marked five of them. The remaining two are deep inland, and we need to find them on the way. The artillery radar station and heavy artillery group are located here—take them out before dawn, and after dawn, their counter-fire will be paralyzed by at least 40%."

The bunker fell silent.

The commander of the 54th Army stubbed out his cigarette, paused for a moment, and said, "If you throw these three battalions in, how many will come back alive?"

He Yuzhu didn't look at him. His fingers pressed on the map, his nails turning white.

"I don't want them to come back alive."

After speaking, he felt a tightness in his chest.

He didn't look up. His fingers tightened on the map. A small patch of red ink smudged, like a wound. He had seen too many people who never returned. Those carried out of the tunnels at Shangganling, those who went on scouting missions and never returned, those who ventured into minefields and only brought back half a collar insignia. Before they left, they called him Deputy Division Commander, their voices muffled in their throats.

He removed his hand from the drawing. The red ink on his fingertips remained unrubbed.

"...It's about taking down the enemy's command post."

His voice dropped a few decibels, and the second half of the sentence seemed to be forced out from between his teeth.

The commander of the 68th Army remained silent for a long time.

"Where did you draw your men for these three battalions?"

"The selection was made from the entire corps. Most of the reconnaissance soldiers were veterans, and each division picked the best. I provided three months of supplementary training for any missing skills," He Yuzhu replied. "The average amount of live-fire training per person was four times higher than that of the infantry. Each person was equipped with a captured American-made walkie-talkie, which allowed them to independently call in artillery fire for correction."

He pushed the blueprint up half an inch.

"This isn't a suicide squad. It's a battle with a return mission. As long as the frontal assault begins on time and the artillery fire extends according to plan, the enemy will be thrown into disarray—and they can slip out."

Yang Yong didn't speak. He picked up a pencil and tapped a blank spot on the drawing.

"Here it is."

"The standby area of ​​the mecha regiment of the puppet capital division," He Yuzhu said. "It was given to us by the intelligence department, but the location isn't accurate; we need to find it out."

"Who should we send to touch it?"

He Yuzhu paused for two seconds.

"I'll take some men with me."

Yang Yong put down his pencil. He didn't reply. He turned to the 68th Army: "Is there any difficulty in the Western Group's frontal breakthrough, coordinated with the special operations plan?"

The commander and political commissar of the 68th Army exchanged glances. After a moment, he said in a low voice, "No problem. The battalion assigned to us will be more than we need after the battle."

The atmosphere eased slightly. The 54th Army began asking about coordination signals and identification markings. He Yuzhu answered each question in turn, his voice low and each word pronounced clearly. Blood seeped from the bandages again, so he shifted half a step to the side, shifting his weight to his right foot.

When the meeting adjourned, it was getting dark outside.

Commander Song didn't follow the main force; he leaned against the entrance of the shelter, smoking. When He Yuzhu shuffled out on his cane, he gestured with his chin toward the next cubicle.

"Come in."

The compartment was small, containing only a cot and a stool. Commander Song closed the door and leaned against the ammunition box to look at him.

"I'm handing over three battalions to you. There's one condition."

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He reached into his pocket—empty. He didn't have any cigarettes.

Commander Song tossed him his cigarette. He caught it, but didn't light it, clutching it in his palm. The cardboard box crumpled.

"Your special forces battalion isn't a suicide squad." Commander Song bent down and struck a match, taking three strikes to light it. "You're using them all as sharp knives. If the knife tip breaks, what will you use to stab people in the next battle?"

He Yuzhu wanted to say, "I know."

But it got stuck in my throat.

He knew. He had walked every single one of those three infiltration routes on the blueprints—not just on the map, but crawling, pulling the wounded along. Those weren't gaps, they were jaws. Clench your teeth, and you'd live. Let go, and you'd be gone.

He stared at the old 1:50,000 scale drawing on the wall for a long time.

"Then I'll need someone to help me."

"Who?"

"The disguised reconnaissance platoon of the 607th Regiment of the 203rd Division," He Yuzhu said. "We don't need their personnel, we need their tactics. Last year they conducted a chemical attack drill, choosing a route along the small path southeast of Erqingdong. Section Chief Zhao has a ready-made infiltration route map; we can borrow it and avoid wading through two minefields."

Commander Song took a drag of his cigarette but didn't answer immediately. A dozen seconds later, he stubbed out the cigarette in his palm, his expression unchanged.

"I'll go talk to 203. You talk to Section Chief Zhao yourself. It's your skill if you can get through to him."

He turned around, paused at the door, and didn't look back.

"Black-faced Li called me and told me to keep an eye on you."

He Yuzhu was taken aback.

"He said that once a battle starts, you forget that you need to leave someone behind." Commander Song pushed open the door, letting in the night wind. "Think about it yourself."

Back at his lodgings, a messenger delivered a letter.

The envelope was crumpled and worn, having been jostled around in the military mail truck for over half a month. He Yuzhu opened it; the handwriting of the stern-faced Li was crooked and the back of the paper was bulging.

"Kid, I heard you've become a deputy division commander and are messing around with some special forces battalion. With higher rank comes more bad habits. Back in Shangganling, you were always charging ahead, and I was cleaning up your mess for a whole year. Now you have hundreds of men under your command, each one a prized possession of their respective units. You better remember this—only focusing on stabbing forward while exposing your back is the way a fool fights."

The letter was worn down to the point of breaking at the creases. He Yuzhu carefully smoothed it out.

"And your leg. You went to a meeting before it was fully healed. Do you think you're made of iron? If the wound reopens, you'll have to heal all over again. If a real fight breaks out, wouldn't it be better for you to be commanding from the trenches than charging forward on crutches?"

The last line saw the pen tip pierce the paper.

Take care. Don't just focus on being a hero.

He Yuzhu folded the letter and tucked it into his inner pocket—on his left breast. There was already a photograph there, its edges frayed from being touched. He pressed it against the fabric without saying a word.

The footsteps of the communications officer outside the window grew louder as they approached.

When the knock came at the door, he had already guessed the signature of the telegram.

He took it and opened it.

Headline: Zhisi Intelligence Department.

Signed by: Shen Lian.

The telegram was very short.

—"Southeast of Erqingdong, the mechanized regiment of the puppet capital division will rotate shifts daily at dawn starting on the 23rd, with intervals of approximately twelve minutes. The minefield layout map will be sent separately later."

"Don't go there yourself until your leg is fully healed."

He Yuzhu read the telegram twice from beginning to end.

The sound of cannon fire outside the window had faded into the distance. He could hear his own breathing.

He folded the telegram. Instead of putting it in his pocket, he casually placed it under the photograph.

The last rays of sunlight streamed into the mountain valley through the window. One by one, the lights in the operations room came on. The sound of artillery fire from the direction of Jincheng was still distant, but everyone could hear it—it was getting closer day by day.

He stood up.

The steel wire on my left leg started tugging again.

He didn't hold onto anything. He stood up straight.