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

The train pulled into Shenyang Station just as dawn was breaking.

He Yuzhu slept by the window all night, leaving several red marks on his face. When the train attendant called him to get off, he hesitated for two seconds before reacting, picked up his old briefcase, and walked onto the platform.

cold.

In late October in Northeast China, the wind was already biting.

Qian Zhiyuan stood on the platform, still wearing that faded blue Zhongshan suit. He didn't hold up a sign; he just stood there, his hands tucked into his sleeves. Seeing He Yuzhu emerge from the carriage, he took a step forward and nodded.

"Where does it grow?"

"Director Qian."

The two didn't say much and walked out of the station. A jeep with a canvas top was parked outside, and the research institute's number was spray-painted on the door. Qian Zhiyuan opened the door, and He Yuzhu got in. There was an old cotton pad underneath him, which felt uncomfortable.

After driving for twenty minutes, the car stopped in front of a row of gray brick houses.

Qian Zhiyuan got out of the car and led the way. They passed through an iron gate, through a long corridor, and pushed open the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. The door creaked as it turned.

He Yuzhu followed him inside.

Inside was a small laboratory, brightly lit. Several unfamiliar machines stood against the wall, some with glass enclosures, others with metal frames, and various pipes hanging from the ceiling. There was a strange smell in the air, indescribable, and somewhat pungent.

In front of the machine furthest inside, two people in white coats were squatting on the ground looking at something. Hearing the door open, they looked up, glanced at it, and then looked down again to continue with their work.

Qian Zhiyuan walked over and stood next to the machine.

"Where does it grow? Come and see."

He Yuzhu walked over and peered inside through the glass enclosure. Inside the machine was a roll of pale yellow filament wound around a metal roller. It was so fine that it was almost invisible, but it shimmered slightly under the light, resembling silk, yet not quite.

"What is this?"

Qian Zhiyuan didn't answer, but picked up a magnifying glass from the side and handed it to him.

He Yuzhu took it and brought it close to the glass. The fine threads, each one thinner than a hair, were rolled evenly around the roller. He put the magnifying glass down and straightened up.

"Did it work?"

"It's done." Qian Zhiyuan pointed to the machine and began to explain. He spoke quickly—spinning process, solvent recovery, stretching ratio, heat setting temperature… He Yuzhu didn't understand much of the terminology, only about 40% of it. But he understood the most crucial sentence:

"You helped us take that first step from zero to one."

He Yuzhu didn't speak, but stared at the coiled strands for a few more seconds.

A thought flashed through my mind: If this thing had been on the battlefield back then, how many pieces of shrapnel could it have blocked?

He suppressed the thought.

Qian Zhiyuan turned around and looked at him.

"Director He, you're not a soldier, you're a spy in our materials science field."

He Yuzhu was stunned for a moment.

Qian Zhiyuan smiled, his wrinkles crinkling together.

"Just kidding," he said. "I mean, it was only after you brought back those samples and the principles that we found our direction. After two years, we finally have this thing."

He Yuzhu looked at the coiled strands again.

What are the performance specifications?

Qian Zhiyuan walked to the table next to him, picked up a report, and opened it.

"It's about 62 percent Kevlar." He paused, "but the entire process is our own. We didn't use the formulas from your samples; we went through it all from scratch."

He Yuzhu nodded.

"When will it be able to equip the troops?"

Qian Zhiyuan thought for a moment.

"Five years. Maybe ten years."

He Yuzhu nodded again.

"It's not too late."

That afternoon, He Yuzhu spent three hours in the laboratory.

Qian Zhiyuan showed him the equipment, the semi-finished product samples, and the experimental record books piled on the table. One machine malfunctioned, and two young men were hunched over repairing it. Qian Zhiyuan also bent down to look, getting his sleeve covered in hand oil.

He Yuzhu stood to the side, watching him, watching the machines, watching the thin, pale yellow filaments.

The strange smell lingered in the air. He Yuzhu sniffed and asked, "What's that smell?"

Qian Zhiyuan crawled out from under the machine, his sleeves stained black and his face smeared with it. He didn't seem to care, casually saying, "The solvent is toxic; you get used to it."

He Yuzhu didn't ask any more questions.

Before leaving, Qian Zhiyuan saw him to the door. The two stood there for a few seconds, then Qian Zhiyuan took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered him one. He Yuzhu took it, lit it, and took a puff.

"This thing," Qian Zhiyuan said abruptly, staring into the distance, "can it really stop bullets?"

He Yuzhu did not answer.

The smoke dissipated and was swept away by the wind.

The train back to Beijing departs at night.

He Yuzhu sat alone in his sleeper compartment, leaning against the window, watching the occasional flash of light across the dark fields outside. The train swayed slowly, clattering and rattling.

He brought up the system interface.

I flipped to the redemption list, found the "Materials Science" category, and scrolled down a few pages.

[Intermediate Fiber Spinning Process Package. Redemption Points: 1,500,000.]

He stared at that line of text for a long time.

It's not that I don't want to change.

My mind kept wandering to other things. Qian Zhiyuan's question—"Can it really stop a bullet?"—kept circling in my head. And then there was that thin, pale yellow filament, shimmering under the light. And that strange smell; Qian Zhiyuan said it was poisonous, but you get used to it.

He recalled the smell of gunpowder on him when he first returned from North Korea four years ago, which took him several days to wash off. He'd gotten used to it eventually and stopped noticing it.

He closed the redemption interface.

Outside the window, the Northeast Plain was dark and indistinct, and nothing could be seen clearly. But he knew it was land, the autumn harvest just over, its dark brown color exposed, waiting to be planted again next spring.

He leaned against the window and closed his eyes.

It's not that I'm sleepy.

The images kept flashing through my mind: Qian Zhiyuan crawling out from under the machine, his sleeves smeared with hand oil; the two young men in white coats squatting on the ground, heads touching; the coiled filaments, wound around the roller, round and round.

And that other question.

Can it really stop a bullet?

he does not know.

But he knew someone would make it.

1954 October.

The transfer order was delivered in the morning.

He Yuzhu took it, glanced at it, and said nothing.

Chen Dashan leaned closer, looking at the paper, his expression changing repeatedly.

"Special Military Technical Advisor to the Second Ministry of Machine Building..." he read aloud, then looked up at He Yuzhu, "Director, you've taken off your military uniform?"

He Yuzhu placed the transfer order on the table.

"temporary."

He took the small box containing the major general's shoulder insignia from the drawer. He opened it and glanced at it. The insignia was still new, having barely been worn. He remembered the day he was awarded the rank, when Chen Dashan insisted on taking his picture, saying, "Director, you have to smile." He didn't smile; the picture showed him with a stern face.

He closed the box and put it in the back of the drawer.

Chen Dashan stood to the side, not leaving.

After a while, Chen Dashan took out a pack of unopened cigarettes from his pocket and handed it over.

"Smoke on the way."

He Yuzhu took it, didn't open it, and put it in his briefcase.

Chen Dashan opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then swallowed it back. Finally, he only managed to say, "Then... what about our research lab?"

He Yuzhu raised his head.

"You're here. I'll come back once I'm done with what I'm doing over there."

Chen Dashan nodded, stood for a moment, then turned and went out. He looked back at the map on the wall as he reached the door, then pushed the door open and left.

He Yuzhu sat alone in his office, looking out the window.

The December sky was overcast and sunless. The soldiers on the parade ground were still practicing bayonet fighting, and the shouts of battle could be faintly heard, just like when he first arrived four years ago. He listened for a while, then stood up and took down the battle map of the Battle of Jincheng from the wall.

That was the map he had personally marked with the attack route. Some of the pencil lines were still there.

He rolled up the map, wrapped it in brown paper, and put it in the cabinet.

The cabinet door closed with a muffled thud.