My era, 1979!

Chapter 118 "The Box of Hope" (2) (Celebrating the 80th Anniversary of Victory)

When Li Changcun received the reply, he was eating frozen fried noodles.

He didn't even notice the fried noodle crumbs falling onto the letter when he saw "won" and "the plane he built himself".

He read "the five stars on the wings were dazzlingly bright" over and over again, and tears suddenly welled up in his eyes, falling onto the frozen letter paper and spreading out a small wet patch.

He picked up his pen again, his hand still trembling, and wrote crookedly: "It's so good, hope, it's so good! So we really can win, so we have our own planes now... Then, the children won't have to fight anymore, right? They won't have to be like us, frozen numb in the snow, not having to watch their comrades fall..."

As he finished writing, he remembered he hadn't told the child his name yet, so he added, "I hope your uncle's name is Li..."

The pen nib suddenly stopped—American incendiary bombs rained down, turning the trenches into an inferno in an instant.

He instinctively stuffed the letter into his pocket and rushed over to press down on his comrade who had just detonated the demolition charge—he couldn't let his comrade's body be blown away, and he couldn't let the enemy discover the location of the demolition charge.

Flames licked at his cotton-padded clothes, sizzling, and the smell of burning flesh mixed with gunpowder smoke filled his nostrils.

He was trembling with pain, but he gritted his teeth and didn't move.

Just like those comrades in the documentary, just like countless comrades who lay in the snow and blocked the gun emplacements.

In his hazy state, he seemed to see the plane that Hope had drawn flying over the 391st position, the five stars on its fuselage shining brightly.

He recalled the words in the letter: "The children no longer need to fight."

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and finally, the hand that was gripping the letter slowly loosened.

"Through seventy years of trials and tribulations, the red flag remains unchanged, but the world has changed."

Hope sat on the sofa, clutching the reply letter from Li Zhanshi that he hadn't finished writing his name on.

On television, the military parade formations marched past in perfect unison, while fighter jet formations in the sky trailed colorful smoke trails, like ribbons tied across the sky.

Suddenly, the scene switched to a documentary clip about the Korean War.

A soldier was engulfed in flames, his cotton-padded coat burned to a black frame, but his body remained rooted to the ground like a nail, completely still.

Then, another soldier crawled over, picked up his gun that had fallen in the snow, and continued charging forward.

One fell, and another took his place. The bloodstains in the snow formed lines, like red ribbons, wrapping around every inch of the 391st position.

Tears of hope welled up instantly, streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto the three words "How wonderful" on the letter, blurring the ink into black circles.

He remembered the names his uncle hadn't finished writing, his uncle asking, "The children don't have to fight anymore, right?" and the words the soldiers on TV were saying:
"When I crossed the Yalu River and saw the artillery fire on the other side, my motherland was right behind me."

"The mountains know me, the rivers know me, and the motherland will never forget me."

"Once we've finished fighting, you won't have to fight anymore."

"Don't forget me, my child."

"Yu Shu, I'm sorry." [Xin Xiwang's home in Harbin, 2026 (by the fireplace)]

Ten-year-old Xin Xiwang pasted her "First in Grade" certificate in the center of her desk. The red background and gold lettering reflected the light from the heater, making it look like a small sun.

He was clutching a pencil, his arm still covered in eraser shavings from his homework.

For the past six months, he has always called himself a "brave little man," and he no longer clings to his mother and cries for his father like he did when he was 8 years old. But today, when he flipped to the illustration of the Battle of Songshan in his history textbook, his pencil still involuntarily drew a black box on his draft paper.

"I'll write this one last letter," he told himself, then slumped onto the table, the corner of the letter pressing against the edge of the award certificate.
“Hello, Brother Da Niu! I’m Xin Xiwang, 10 years old, in fourth grade, and I got first place in my grade this time. The textbook says there was the Battle of Songshan in 1944, and Mom said that many older boys your age went to fight back then. You’re 15 now, is your gun taller than you? I can wash my own socks and recite my lessons now. Mom says I’ve grown up, but I still want to know, are you scared on the front lines?”

As he folded the letter into a neat little square and dropped it into the black box, he heard the firewood crackling in the stove.

Temporary trenches on the Yunnan-Burma front in 1943 (rainy season)

Liu Daniu huddled in the trench, rain dripping down the edge of his helmet and onto the rifle on his knee.

This gun was passed down to him by his fallen sergeant; the stock was wider than his shoulders, and it felt incredibly heavy.

He had just used his bayonet to whittle a wooden stick to use as a butt pad when he saw an envelope pop out of the black box, with the words "To Liu Daniu" written crookedly on it.

Upon opening the letter, Xin Xiwang's handwriting resembled a newly sprouting seedling: "First in the grade," "Wash your own socks," "Is your gun taller than you?"

Da Niu grinned, revealing a missing front tooth, which he had knocked out last month while fighting the Japanese with bayonets.

He pulled out a dry, hard rice ball wrapped in oiled paper, took a bite, swallowed it with the rainwater, and then wrote on the back of the letter with a charcoal pencil:

“Hey bro, I’m Liu Daniu, 15 years old. It’s been raining here for almost a month, you could raise fish in the trenches. You’re really amazing for getting first place. When I was 10, I was still digging potatoes in the field. The gun is taller than me, I have to stand on a stone to aim. Are you scared? Of course I’m scared. But my parents were killed by the Japanese last year. If I don’t fight the Japanese, who will protect a kid like you? The company commander said: If he dies, the platoon leader goes. If the platoon leaders all die, the squad leaders go. If the squad leaders all die, we go. Chinese people can die standing up, but they can’t live kneeling.”

As he stuffed the letter into the black box, the assembly call came from afar, and the squad leader shouted, "Prepare to take over Songshan!" He grabbed his rifle, placed a wooden stick under the butt, and didn't forget to touch the black box as he ran.

(The following year: Two worlds in the letters)

A hopeful letter always carries warmth: "Brother Da Niu, I've learned to ride a bicycle. I'll take my sister to the park this weekend; there are cherry blossoms there."

"We have a new art teacher in our class who teaches us to draw airplanes. I drew an airplane that can carry a lot of people, and I saved a seat for you."

"Mom made braised pork, and I ate two bowls. Haven't you had a hot meal in a long time?"

Da Niu's letter was always tinged with the smell of gunpowder: "Brother Xiwang, we repelled the Japanese charge yesterday. The deputy squad leader took a bullet for me and died. I thought I was numb, but I still cried when the deputy squad leader died."

“I planted a wild lily in the trench. It sprouts when it rains. I thought if it survives until victory, I’ll show it to you.”

"We ate well today. Our mess hall cooked corn porridge. I saved half a bowl for you, but the porridge hardened when it got cold, so you probably won't like it."

He wanted to tuck every letter from Da Niu into his textbook, carefully avoiding the bullet holes and charcoal marks blurred by rain on the letter paper.

Da Niu pinned the letter of hope to his chest, placing it next to his parents' only photograph. When he was on guard duty at night, he would touch it and feel that the gun wasn't so heavy anymore.

(End of this chapter)