My era, 1979!

Chapter 153 Condolences and Resounding Again

Xu Chengjun followed the others towards the rehearsal area. The dirt road under his feet was still damp from the morning, and it felt soft underfoot.

From afar, you could see a makeshift wooden platform covered with a faded blue cloth. Two kerosene lamps hung beside the platform, with small grasshoppers made of wheat stalks by the soldiers tied to the lamp ropes.

It was clearly prepared on purpose, revealing a thoughtful touch hidden beneath its rough exterior.

"This stage was set up by the soldiers overnight, saying they wanted to make our performance comfortable."

The soldier driving the car followed beside him, pointing at the wooden platform and laughing, "Many people came over to help saw the wood after practicing tactics yesterday, and their hands are blistered."

Xu Chengjun felt a warmth in his heart. Just as he reached the edge of the stage, Liu Xiaoqing pulled him toward the center of the stage: "Since we're already here, let's test the sound first! Even though we don't have microphones, we still need to make sure the soldiers can hear us clearly."

As she spoke, she cleared her throat and sang a line from the song "Little Flower" to the open space below the stage. Her voice was so bright it was like scattered silver, causing the soldiers who were tidying up the props to stop what they were doing and secretly look over.

It would have been better if I hadn't looked, because I was shocked when I did!
Isn't that He Cuigu?

At this time, Liu Xiaoqing's fame was not as high as Chen Chong's, but it was still quite high.

With her roles in "Little Flower" and "Look at This Family," she became the first young actress to be nominated for both the lead and supporting roles at the Hundred Flowers Awards. She is a "new era leading lady" heavily promoted by the August First Film Studio.

"He Cuigu!"

"He Cuigu!"

They even started shouting some slogans.

Xu Chengjun, standing to the side, seemed much less well-known. Who would recognize a stinking intellectual who writes articles like you?
Liu Xiaoqing smiled and waved his hand, then led the soldiers in singing "Ronghua" together.

There is a beautiful flower in the world, and that is the bloom of youth.

Its unyielding spirit blossoms into flowers, its surface stained crimson with drops of blood.

Ah~ Ah~ fluffy flowers, ah~ la~

"Fragrance fills the mountain cliffs all the way"

When he got emotional while singing, Xu Chengjun saw that many of the soldiers in the audience had tears in their eyes.

Many of these soldiers had just returned from the front lines. The NJ Military Region was one of the leading military regions in the country during the 79 self-defense war.

A considerable number of soldiers were also transferred to the southern battlefield.

Chen Chong squatted by the platform, learning to weave grasshoppers from a soldier. He clumsily wound the grasshoppers around the straw, occasionally looking up to ask, "Is this how you weave them?" His face turned bright red.

The soldiers standing nearby weren't annoyed; they just smiled.

I never imagined I'd have the chance to be so close to Zhao Xiaohua in my entire life.

"Take it easy."

Tao Yuling walked over, took the straw from her hand, and quickly wove it into a hopping grasshopper: "You little girl, you're so good at acting, but you're clumsy at this kind of work."

Back when I was in the cultural troupe, I learned to weave straw hats from the villagers; it was much harder than this, but I still mastered it.

"Either you're a veteran artist or..."

Chen Chong replied sarcastically, and Xu Chengjun realized that although this girl was only 18, her verbal skills were by no means inferior to anyone else's.

Tang Guoqiang didn't join the excitement in the center of the stage. Instead, he huddled with a few soldiers in the equipment area, teaching them how to hold a gun: "In movies, they raise their heads slightly for the sake of appearance. But in real training, you have to lower your shoulders so that you can aim steadily."

As he spoke, he assumed a horse stance, his posture so perfect that the soldiers couldn't help but applaud. He scratched his head sheepishly and said, "Compared to you guys, mine is just for show."

"It's not just for show; you artists make films for the whole nation."

"We use these to eat and to defend our country."

Tang Guoqiang's face turned even redder after hearing this.

Young man, you're too blunt.

Ru Zhijuan, Li Ruqing, and Wu Qiang sat on a stone by the platform, chatting with an old soldier wearing an old military cap.

The veteran clutched an enamel mug with a small chip on the rim, filled with dried wild chrysanthemum tea. "Let me tell you," he said, "when I read 'Red Silk' last time, the part about Huang Siyuan hiding the wooden comb reminded me of my wife. When I went to the front lines, she sewed me a wooden comb, which is still under my pillow. This book is really good, but many soldiers in the army don't understand it."

"If I had to say, 'Little Flower' was the best film. When will you make 'Red Silk' into a movie for us to watch?"

Ru Zhijuan smiled and pointed at Xu Chengjun: "That depends on little Xu. We don't have the final say on his books!"

"Sister Ru, don't try to shift the blame. This isn't up to you, nor is it up to me!"

Li Ruqing: "No, let's not talk about that. Comrade Xu, you can also play and sing?"

Xu Chengjun: No, bro, it seems you haven't gotten over this yet?

Just as Xu Chengjun was about to walk over, the young soldier who had been sitting next to him tugged at his sleeve, still clutching the manuscript in his hand: "Teacher Xu, do you... do you remember promising to read the manuscript for me?"

His eyes held a hint of timidity, yet also a hint of anticipation, and the tips of his ears turned red.

"of course I remember."

Xu Chengjun took the manuscript and smiled at the soldiers who had gathered around him, "Shall we read it now? Let everyone give you some feedback."

The young soldier nodded quickly, and Xu Chengjun cleared his throat and began to recite the poem, "Steel gun on shoulder, moon in the sky."

When the poem read, "When I miss home, I see clouds that look like cotton woven by my mother," the surroundings suddenly fell silent, and a soldier quietly wiped his eyes.

He just received the cotton thread from home last week and hasn't had time to reply to his mother yet.

This young soldier was only eighteen or nineteen years old.

Poetry is very ordinary.

But what resonates with people is not rhetoric or fancy words.

Rather, it is the emotion contained within.

"Well written!"

Tang Guoqiang was the first to applaud, then walked over and patted the young soldier on the shoulder, saying, "Your lines are even more moving than mine! Write more of these in the future, and we'll incorporate them into our rehearsals so the whole company can hear them!"

The young soldier was so excited he couldn't speak, he just kept nodding.

Xu Chengjun handed the manuscript back to him and then took out a pen from his pocket: "Here you go. If you write something new next time, just come to me."

After praising the young soldier, Tang Guoqiang turned into a "praise party": "Teacher Xu, your recitation of poetry is so clear and accurate, you'd be more than qualified to be a broadcaster!"

"Just keep bragging for me. If I can't get the job, I'll go to the August First Film Studio and ask your boss to help me find one."

"Hey, I was just afraid you wouldn't come!"

Tang Guoqiang is now riding high on success.

He won the Ministry of Culture's 1979 Outstanding Young Creator Award for his role as Zhao Yongsheng.

In terms of a filmmaker's resume, the most important thing is that he also participated in the Cannes Film Festival for the first time that year with the Chinese film delegation.

Watching this scene, Ru Zhijuan quietly nudged Xu Chengjun's arm: "What you meant when you said 'literature doesn't distinguish between popular and serious'?"

Xu Chengjun smiled and nodded, about to speak, when Liu Xiaoqing ran over, holding a sweet potato in her hand: "Teacher Ru, Teacher Xu, try it! The soldiers just took it from the stove, it's still warm!"

She stuffed a sweet potato into his hand, which burned Xu Chengjun so much that he quickly switched it to his other hand. "After rehearsal, we'll eat with the soldiers from the communal pot. I heard they stewed pork ribs today; they saved up their reserve rations!"

As they were talking, Li Ruqing stood up and clapped his hands: "Alright, alright, let's rehearse the scene from 'Little Flower' first! Xiaoqing, Chen Chong, and Guo Qiang, you three go first and rehearse the scene 'Zhao Xiaohua looking for her brother.' Cheng Jun, you watch from the side. When you talk to the soldiers about letters from home later, you can also incorporate that into your story."

Liu Xiaoqing and Chen Chong immediately stood in the center of the stage, and Tang Guoqiang also straightened his military uniform. Just as he was about to speak, shouts suddenly came from the audience: "Teacher Tang, act more convincingly! We've all seen 'Little Flower,' don't try to fool us!"

Tang Guoqiang smiled and cupped his hands in a gesture of respect: "Don't worry! I definitely won't fool anyone! If I don't perform well, you can punish me by making me sing military songs for you!"

Laughter mingled on and off the stage, and the light from the lanterns fell warmly on everyone's faces.

As Xu Chengjun munched on a hot sweet potato, he suddenly thought of his older brother, Xu Jianjun.

I wonder where my brother is now, and whether he, like these soldiers, can eat hot sweet potatoes and hear such lively laughter.

As the sun set, the wooden platform was surrounded by soldiers, some carrying small stools, others leaning against tree trunks. Even the cooks brought over freshly cooked mung bean soup and ladled a full spoonful into each person's bowl.

Xu Chengjun sipped his mung bean soup, listened to Liu Xiaoqing and Chen Chong rehearsing their lines, and watched Tang Guoqiang demonstrating tactics to the soldiers.

In a sense, this visit was not a "gift".

Instead, it was these artists who, enveloped in the warmth of the soldiers, found solace and comfort.

That evening, Commander Zhang of the Nanjing Military Region hosted a banquet in the camp's mess hall for comrades from the arts and culture circles.

The long wooden tables in the canteen were pushed together and covered with a faded blue cloth. A large pot of stew was simmering on a coal stove in the corner, and the aroma filled the entire canteen.

Commander Zhang, dressed in a crisp military uniform, was seated at the head of the table, holding an enamel mug in his hand. He first saluted everyone: "The soldiers are happier than if it were New Year's Day for all of you teachers to come and visit the military region. Let me introduce myself first. I'm Lao Zhang, from the Ministry of Culture. I've been working here for eight years. It's my honor to be able to gather with you comrades who are involved in the arts today."

Everyone quickly stood up to return the greeting and introduced themselves.

Xu Chengjun had just said, "I am Xu Chengjun, a novelist."

Quiet cheers erupted from below, some soldiers even clapping loudly, startling the cooks serving dishes so much that their hands trembled, nearly spilling the soup. The mess hall was already packed, with soldiers crowding around the tables in layers. Those in the front rows stood on tiptoe to get closer, while those in the back tugged at the sleeves of those in front, asking incessantly, "What did Commander Zhang say? Did Teacher Xu just mention 'Red Silk'?"

The people in the front row didn't even bother to turn around, only vaguely replying, "I told you, I told you, I'll teach you later!"

The dishes were quickly served. The braised pork in the enamel plate was glistening with oil, the stewed beef with potatoes was steaming hot, and there were also dishes of pickled cucumbers and seaweed salad, all of which were the soldiers' reserve rations.

Commander Zhang picked up his chopsticks, pointed at the dishes, and smiled: "We only have these simple dishes due to limited resources, please don't mind them. The soldiers on the front lines usually eat canned food, so today we specially asked the cooks to stew these dishes for us to have a lively meal together."

Xu Chengjun had just picked up a piece of braised pork when he felt someone touch his arm. He turned around and saw the young soldier who had sat next to him during the day, still clutching the manuscript in his hand: "Teacher Xu, could you... could you sign this for me? I want to send it to my mom so she knows I met a great writer in the army."

As soon as he finished speaking, several soldiers gathered around, holding notebooks and even military caps, shouting all at once, "Teacher Xu, sign one for me too!"

"I want one too! I've watched 'The Red Silk' three times!"

Xu Chengjun quickly put down his chopsticks, took the pen and signed, his hand almost aching from writing.

Ru Zhijuan chuckled and teased from the side, "Chengjun, your popularity is even higher than Xiaoqing's and Chen Chong's!"

Liu Xiaoqing immediately chimed in, "Of course! Teacher Xu's 'Red Silk' is even more deeply rooted in the hearts of the soldiers than the movies we've acted in!"

He then handed over his notebook: "Sign one for me too, I'll show it off to my friends later."

The young soldier standing nearby looked at Liu Xiaoqing and his eyes lit up: "You must be He Cuigu! Could you sign one for me too?"

Xu Chengjun shrugged: "Cui Gu is quite popular!"

Looking at the lively scene, Commander Zhang took a sip of tea and said, "Dear teachers, let me tell you about tomorrow's itinerary. At eight o'clock in the morning, we will take a jeep to the grassroots units. We will go to the First Company first, where they have just come down from the exercise field. Many soldiers are waiting to chat with you. We will have lunch at the company headquarters. In the afternoon, we will go to the Second Company to chat with you. In the evening, we will return to the camp and have a symposium with the veterans. We will mainly chat and listen to their stories."

He paused, then added, "The conditions at the grassroots level are worse than at the camp, and the roads are difficult to travel, so please bear with us. However, the soldiers are all looking forward to your visit. Yesterday, a soldier told me that he wanted to ask you all to help him read his letter home, as he was afraid that if he didn't write it well, his family would worry."

Xu Chengjun and the others immediately nodded: "No problem, we'll also exchange ideas with the soldiers and learn from each other."

Just then, a commotion suddenly came from the entrance of the canteen. Several soldiers who had just changed shifts ran in carrying their guns. When they saw a table full of people, they quickly stood at the door and dared not move.

Commander Zhang smiled and waved: "Come and sit down! It's a good opportunity to chat with you all. Haven't you always said you wanted to know the author of 'Red Silk'? This is Professor Xu Chengjun."

The soldiers' eyes lit up, and they cautiously approached. One of the tall soldiers blushed and said, "Comrade Xu, I...I especially like the Xu Jianjun you wrote about. He is my role model."

Xu Chengjun felt a surge of warmth in his heart and was about to speak when he saw Commander Zhang raise his enamel mug: "Dear teachers, I'd like to offer you a toast with water instead of wine! Thank you for coming to bring warmth to the soldiers. Your words and your performances are more inspiring than anything else!"

Everyone picked up their jars and clinked them together with Commander Zhang. The crisp clinking sound, mixed with the soldiers' applause, echoed throughout the mess hall.

After dinner, the soldiers lingered around, reluctant to leave. Chen Chong and Liu Xiaoqing sang the theme song from the song "Little Flower" for everyone, while Tang Guoqiang demonstrated tactical maneuvers with the soldiers.

Xu Chengjun was surrounded by a group of soldiers, who taught him the skills of writing letters home, from "how to greet your mother at the beginning" to "how to tell your sister about interesting things in the army," until his throat was dry.

But compared to other things...

This environment is definitely more interesting.

Commander Zhang walked over and patted him on the shoulder: "Comrade Xu, your book has received a very good response after it was reprinted in our unit. We hope you can continue to devote yourself to creating works on military themes. We look forward to it very much."

Xu Chengjun smiled and nodded, "The next novel will be published in Harvest, and it can be seen as a sequel to Red Silk."

"A sequel? That would be wonderful! We comrades who work in the arts and culture field in the military are just hoping that writers like you can produce some new works so that our work can proceed smoothly!"

"You're too kind. This field trip to the military base really touched me."

"It's not just a polite remark; our NJ Military Region is coordinating with the Soldiers Publishing House in hopes of publishing your book, 'Red Silk.'"

"Is there still this?"

"Of course!"

At this point, Xu Chengjun was taken aback and looked up in surprise.
Warrior Publishing House is the predecessor of JFJ Publishing House. On the eve of the 30th anniversary of the founding of the People's Republic of China, the newly revised Volume 1 of "A Single Spark Can Start a Prairie Fire" was republished by Warrior Publishing House and then by JFJ News and Communication Center Publishing House.

The biggest benefit of publishing it through the Warriors Publishing House would likely be that the military itself would purchase a large quantity.

The benefits in terms of royalties are obvious.

He gazed at the night outside the window, where the light from the kerosene lamp shone through and fell on the young faces of the soldiers.

distance.

I wonder if my older brother has received any letters from home yet, and if he, like these soldiers, is hiding his longing for home in some small object.

In the empty military camp after dinner, kerosene lamps hung from the branches of old locust trees, their dim light spilling onto the small stools scattered on the ground.

The soldiers didn't rush back to their barracks; they gathered in small groups, some still clutching unfinished letters home.

In the afternoon, when they heard that Xu Chengjun was going to sing and play an instrument, even the soldiers who had just changed shifts came running over with their guns, surrounding the open space in layers.

This great writer can also sing.

Did you sing well?

Sigh, even celebrities singing off-key is a topic of conversation!
When Xu Chengjun took the guitar off the jeep, a murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd.

It was a 793 guitar from the Shanghai National Musical Instrument Factory. A piece of light brown tape was pasted on the body. It was a second-hand item that Lin Yimin's cousin had found. At this moment, it was emitting a warm glow under the kerosene lamp.

"This is a guitar?"

A young soldier from the countryside approached the front row, his fingertips about to touch the strings, but he quickly withdrew them, his eyes full of curiosity.

"Teacher Xu, what kind of sound can this instrument produce?"

Someone shouted out; it was the soldier who had been learning to write family letters from Xu Chengjun during the day.

Xu Chengjun sat on a wooden box in the center of the open space, his fingertips pausing as he tuned the strings, and replied with a smile, "It can play the sound of you longing for home."

The crowd laughed at these words, but quickly fell silent.

Who doesn't miss home?
Especially when I think of the smoke of war in the south, and the people waiting under the locust tree at home.

In those days, men who served in the military returned home much more often than men in later generations.

When the guitar strings rang out with a "hum," the entire venue fell silent.

The first line, "In the smoke of war in the southern border, you grip your steel gun tightly," floated out. The old soldier leaning against the tree trunk suddenly straightened up. He was wearing an old military cap with the brim pulled low, but at this moment he quietly raised his eyes and stared in the direction of Xu Chengjun.

Chen Chong squatted in the first row, her clothes fluttering gently in the evening breeze. She had originally wanted to exchange a few jokes with Liu Xiaoqing.

Upon hearing these lyrics, she clenched the handkerchief in her hand.

When she acted in "Little Flower", she also played a role in a scene where she sent her loved ones to the front lines. He understood how much weight was hidden in the line "Waiting for you to come back" in the play.

This word seems quite unusual?
She gazed intently at Xu Chengjun, who was softly singing before her.

When she was in college in Shanghai, her roommates often mentioned this song, and she was very curious about it.

Now I suddenly hear the original version of the song.

I felt a little panicked and at a loss.

This was the first time she had been somewhat impressed by the talent of her peers.
"I wait for your return under the locust tree in the northern countryside."

Xu Chengjun lowered his voice, as if he were whispering to someone.

An eighteen or nineteen-year-old soldier suddenly teared up. There was an old locust tree in front of his hometown. When he joined the army last year, his mother stuffed a cloth bag under the locust tree, with half a pancake inside.

He quickly lowered his head, pretending to tie his shoelaces, but couldn't hold back his tears, which fell onto his military boots, leaving a small wet stain.

Liu Xiaoqing, who was leaning against Tao Yuling, unconsciously twirled her skirt with her fingers. When she heard the words "There are monuments in the south, and we await your return in the north," she sniffed.

She recalled the scene in "Little Flower" where He Cuigu sends her brother off to join the army. At the time, the director asked her to cry, but she always felt that she hadn't acted it out properly. But now, listening to these lyrics, her chest felt like it was blocked by something, and her eyes suddenly welled up with tears.

"This song..."

"The melody is catchy, and the singing technique is novel."

"It sounds like a song that could become a nationwide hit!"

Tao Yuling patted her hand without saying anything, just looking in Xu Chengjun's direction.

As she listened to the guitar, she recalled her days in the cultural troupe, when she went to perform on the border with the troops. A soldier once told her, "After the war, I'll go home and get married." But that soldier never came back.

This emotion and its progression?

Could someone without formal training write this?
It does resemble the folk music popular in Hong Kong and Taiwan now.

Tang Guoqiang stood among the soldiers, his thick eyebrows furrowed, but he didn't joke around as usual.

"Southern Xinjiang, Northern Homeland in Sorrow"
A monument stands in southern Xinjiang

The south wind whispers, the north moon shines.

Beixiang awaits your return.

(End of this chapter)