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

As He Nianhua squatted in the yard drawing circles, He Yuzhu had just come out of the house. The twig left crooked, uneven marks on the gray earth, stretching from the doorway all the way to the locust tree. The three-year-old was drawing very seriously, his lips pursed and his cheeks puffed out, as if he was putting all his strength into that twig.

"Dad, look." He Nianhua looked up, pointing to the pile of rings. He Yuzhu squatted down, looked at them for a long time, but couldn't figure out what they were. "Tanks," He Nianhua said. He Yuzhu paused, looked again, still couldn't tell, but he nodded. "They look like tanks."

He Nianhua was happy and squatted down to continue drawing. Qin Huairu came out of the house, wearing an apron and with flour on her hands, and stood at the door calling for dinner. He Nianhua threw down the branch and ran inside, but turned back at the door and waved to He Yuzhu. He Yuzhu stood up and was about to go inside when the phone rang.

The phone rang shrilly in the courtyard, urgent. Qin Huairu stopped and glanced back at him. He Yuzhu walked over and picked up the receiver. It was Old Sun on the other end, his voice lower than usual, as if afraid of being overheard.

"Urgent telegram from the General Staff. India has amassed two brigades at the border, equipped with Soviet-style weapons, including tanks and artillery." He Yuzhu held the receiver, silent. He could hear his own heartbeat, heavy and rhythmic. Qin Huairu was still standing at the door, a speck of flour clinging to her apron drifting in the wind and landing on the threshold. He Nianhua peeked out from under her arm and called to He Yuzhu, "Dad, time to eat."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu stood there, looking at the pile of circles He Nianhua had just drawn. A gust of wind blew, scattering some of the dust, making the crooked tanks appear blurry, as if they were about to dissolve.

Qin Huairu didn't ask. She took off her apron, draped it over the doorframe, and pulled He Nianhua into the house. "Your dad has something to do, let's eat first." He Nianhua was unwilling, twisting her body and shouting "Wait for Dad," but Qin Huairu pulled her inside. The door wasn't closed tightly, leaving a crack, and the sound of bowls and chopsticks clattering could be heard softly from inside.

He Yuzhu stood in the yard, took the gloves out of his pocket, looked at them, and then put them back in.

The workshop lights stayed on all night. When He Yuzhu arrived, Ma Yuejin was squatting in front of the new tank, shining a flashlight on the tracks, examining them inch by inch. The light shone coldly on the metal plates. He examined them slowly, touching each section after he finished to check if the bolts were tightened. Lin Jianguo was flipping through documents beside him, making a loud rustling sound, as if he wanted to tear a hole in the papers.

Hearing footsteps, Ma Yuejin looked up. His knees were numb from squatting, and he swayed as he stood up. He grabbed the cannon barrel and pressed his handprint into the cold metal. "Dean, the tank is fine. It can move at any time." He Yuzhu didn't speak, but walked around the tank. The military green paint was dim under the light, the cannon barrel was pointing diagonally at the ceiling, and the tracks had left two shallow marks on the ground.

"Where are the anti-tank guns?" Lin Jianguo looked up from the pile of documents, dark circles under his eyes. "Three, all loaded. Ammunition is also complete." He Yuzhu walked to the three guns, reached out and touched the barrels; they were cold, and his fingers were covered in a layer of dust. "When can we load them onto the trucks?" Ma Yuejin glanced at the clock on the wall. "Dawn. Two more hours."

He Yuzhu sat down on the ammunition box. The workshop fell silent; the machines stopped, leaving only the exhaust fans whirring like flies trapped in a glass jar. Ma Yuejin squatted back down to continue examining the tracks, this time even more slowly, touching each section twice. Lin Jianguo leaned against the filing cabinet, flipping through the papers he had already reviewed countless times. No one spoke, but no one left. Occasionally, someone would turn over, the chair creaking, and then silence would return.

He Yuzhu sat there, looking at the slogan on the opposite wall. A corner of the paint on the four characters "Self-reliance" had chipped off, revealing the gray-white wall underneath. He remembered when Ma Yuejin first arrived, he knew nothing, squatting in front of the lathe with a wrench, not knowing where to put his hands. Now, he squatted in front of the tank, and when he shone a flashlight on it, he could see which track was half a millimeter loose.

As dawn broke, the trucks drove in. Three of them, with canvas awnings and headlights still on, shone brightly on the concrete floor of the workshop, making the oil stains clearly visible. The workers gathered around; some had just started work, their cotton-padded coats not yet buttoned up; others had stayed up all night, their eyes red, but none of them left.

As the first tank rolled out of the workshop, some people started clapping. It wasn't the enthusiastic, organized kind of clapping; it was sparse, a few claps here and there. Old Zhou, standing at the very front, clapped a few times, stopped, and clapped a few more times. The young worker next to him joined in, clapping until he laughed, then clapped even harder. The applause grew louder and louder, drowning out the sound of the exhaust fans.

Ma Yuejin stood at the doorway, watching the tank slowly roll onto the flatbed truck. The sound of the tracks crushing the metal plates was deep and muffled, like something pressing on his chest. He turned around, walked up to He Yuzhu, and stopped.

"Dean, I'll go with the car."

He Yuzhu looked at him. His face was thinner, his cheekbones protruded, and there were two dark circles under his eyes, but his eyes were bright. Just as bright as when he called back from Nanjing that year and said "it's done."

"The altitude there is high."

"I know."

"There isn't enough oxygen."

"I know."

"Zhao Dayong is waiting over there," Ma Yuejin said, his voice low, as if speaking to himself. "I don't trust anyone else to go."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He took the gloves out of his pocket, looked at them, and then put them back. Ma Yuejin saw this and paused for a moment. "Dean, you keep them. I have some."

"Be careful on the road," He Yuzhu said.

Ma Yuejin nodded, turned around, and climbed onto the flatbed truck. He sat next to the turret, his legs dangling over the edge, swaying slightly. As the truck started moving, he waved to He Yuzhu, as if to say something, but opened his mouth briefly and then closed it again.

The car drove out of the gate, turned the corner, and disappeared from sight. Lin Jianguo stood beside him, still clutching the document in his hand, the edges curled up. "Dean, can he handle it?" He Yuzhu didn't answer. He turned around, walked into the workshop, and sat on the ammunition box he had just sat on. The exhaust fan was still running, buzzing, as if it would never stop.

The train journey took three days. He Yuzhu waited in his office for three days. On the first day, he flipped through the radar data but couldn't absorb a single word. On the second day, he walked around the yard a few times, returning to the gate. On the third day, he sat in his chair, putting on and taking off his gloves repeatedly. Lin Jianguo brought him food once; he ate a couple of bites and put the food down. When the food got cold, Lin Jianguo took it away, leaving a round mark of water from the bottom of the bowl on the table.

In the evening, Old Sun came by. "The General Staff is also waiting for news." He stood at the door, not coming in. He Yuzhu nodded. Old Sun left, his footsteps echoing in the corridor for a while before falling silent again.

At night, Qin Huairu left the light on for him. He Nianhua was already asleep, his even breathing coming from the kang (heated brick bed). He Yuzhu sat at the table, watching the lamp. The wick, having burned for a while, flickered, then settled. The phone didn't ring.

On the fourth night, the phone rang.

He Yuzhu answered the phone. It was Ma Yuejin on the other end, his voice weak and erratic, as if being blown by the wind. "Dean, we've arrived." He Yuzhu held the receiver, hearing the wind howling loudly on the other end, as if it were tearing something apart.

"The train changed locomotives in Xining, which delayed us for half a day." Ma Yuejin took a breath, his words broken into two sentences. "It's cold here. Colder than North Korea. There's not enough oxygen either; I get out of breath after just a few steps."

"How do you look?" He Yuzhu asked.

There was a moment of silence on the other end. "It's alright."

He Yuzhu realized that it wasn't a "not bad" sound. He didn't ask any more questions.

"The tank is fine. The cannon is fine too." Ma Yuejin's voice was low. "Zhao Dayong came to pick us up, and his eyes reddened when he saw the tank." He Yuzhu didn't speak. He heard someone shouting on the other end, the voice was far away and was broken by the wind.

"Dean," Ma Yuejin's voice suddenly tightened, "there seems to be some movement over there."

He Yuzhu clenched his hands tightly on his knees. "How many people?"

"I can't see clearly," Ma Yuejin said, lowering his voice even further. "It's all pitch black."

The call dropped. It wasn't Ma Yuejin who hung up; the signal was lost, or something else. He Yuzhu called out "Ma Yuejin" into the receiver, but there was no answer. He called out again, but only a busy tone, one after another, like a heartbeat.

He sat there, still clutching the microphone, his palms sweaty. Dawn was breaking outside the window; the east was tinged with the pale light of dawn, and sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, illuminating the extinguished lamp on the table.

The phone didn't ring again.

As dawn broke, Qin Huairu pushed open the door and came in. She saw He Yuzhu still sitting in his chair, holding a microphone. She placed a bowl of porridge on the table without asking any questions. The porridge was steaming, and the white rice was bubbling in the bowl.

When Lin Jianguo knocked on the door, the porridge had already gone cold.

"Dean, the General Staff is calling."

He Yuzhu stood up and put the microphone down. The microphone was covered in sweat from his hands, it was damp.

He walked out of the office. It was dawn, but the sun hadn't risen yet; everything was hazy and gray.