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

The archives were on the second basement level. The corridor lights were old-fashioned incandescent bulbs, emitting a dim, yellowish light that cast a cold, white glow on the concrete floor. He Yuzhu's footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, one after another, like someone hammering nails. He reached the door, stopped, and took out his keys from his pocket.

The iron door was heavy; the hinges creaked as he pushed it open. He went inside, turning on only the work light beside the door without turning on the main light. The light shone on the first row of iron cabinets, casting a long shadow. He walked to the cabinet labeled "Military Industry - Rockets" and stood there for a long time.

The book, "Improvement Plan for the 122mm Rocket Launcher," was tucked between anti-tank missile and radar data; the serial number on its spine had faded. He pulled it out and opened to the first page. The drawings were done with a pen back then, the lines very fine, with dense annotations crammed into the corners. His hand paused on the drawing, his fingertips able to feel the slightly raised ink on the paper.

Ma Yuejin appeared at the doorway at some unknown time.

"Dean, are we really going to do this?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He turned to the chapter on ballistic calculations in the document, looked at it for a while, closed it, and handed it over.

"Take it to Lin Jianguo and have him calculate it with a computer. If the data is correct, send it to the factory."

Ma Yuejin took it and held it in his arms. He tapped the cover lightly with his fingers, as if confirming something.

"OK."

He turned and left. He Yuzhu remained standing in front of the cabinet, staring at the empty space. He reached out and touched the edge of the cabinet; the metal was cool. He closed the cabinet door, locked it, and gripped the key in his hand for a moment before putting it in his pocket.

As he walked out of the archives, the corridor lights flickered briefly before coming back on. He passed a window, stopped, and glanced outside. The old locust tree in the courtyard had sprouted new buds, tender green, swaying gently in the breeze. He stood there for a moment before continuing on his way.

All the machines in the workshop had stopped, except for the exhaust fans, which were still running and humming. Ma Yuejin was squatting in front of the Swiss-made machine tool, holding calipers and measuring a part. The blueprints were spread out on the floor, with a rag pressing down the corners, and a pencil stub lying beside them. He measured very slowly, checking the caliper markings again and again before making a note in his notebook.

He Yuzhu walked over and squatted down next to him.

"How is it?"

Ma Yuejin didn't look up, and checked the calipers again.

"The lead screw has twice the precision of ours."

He handed over the calipers. He Yuzhu took them and measured the gauge against the wire. The numbers on the scale were clear, and it was finer than any of the gauges they produced themselves. He returned the calipers; the wire gleamed a dark silver light under the lamp, its surface so smooth it reflected a person's image.

Ma Yuejin turned to a new page in the notebook.

"Dean, we can make this too."

He Yuzhu looked at him.

"Is it possible?"

Ma Yuejin's fingers slowly traced the wire mesh, moving from one end to the other.

"Not now. But take it apart, look at it, and learn from it; maybe then you'll be able to do it."

He looked up, revealing two dark circles under his eyes, but his eyes were bright.

"I want to dismantle one of them."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He stood up, walked to the machine tool, and reached out to touch its base. It was cast iron, cold and heavy. He remembered his trip to Moscow years ago, when the Soviets tried to fool him with technology from ten years ago, and he cursed them in Russian before leaving. Now, the Swiss product was right in front of him, more precise than the Soviets', and not cheap either.

"Take it apart. If it gets damaged, it's on me."

Ma Yuejin paused for a moment, then smiled. He stood up, his legs numb from squatting, and swayed slightly, grabbing the machine tool next to him to steady himself. He didn't say anything, turning to find a wrench.

He Yuzhu stood in the workshop, watching him unscrew the first screw. The sound of metal clashing against metal was crisp and echoed in the empty workshop, like striking something.

The factory called three days later. The workshop foreman's surname was Sun, and he had a loud voice, like he was arguing.

"We don't have the steel for the launch tubes. Can we use a different kind?"

He Yuzhu held the microphone and thought for a moment. There were people talking outside the window, but the voices were far away and he couldn't make out what they were saying.

"It can't be changed. This is the design; we're afraid it will cause problems if we change it."

Director Sun was silent for a moment, then the sound of turning pages came through the microphone.

"Then we'll go and transfer it. We'll transfer it from Anshan Iron and Steel."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He looked at the old locust tree in the yard; many new leaves had grown, glistening green in the sunlight. Director Sun was still speaking on the other end, his voice lowered, as if he were discussing something with someone next to him. After a while, he picked up the microphone again.

"Director He, Ansteel said that this batch of materials needs to be rushed and will take half a month."

He Yuzhu tapped his fingers lightly on the edge of the table.

"Hurry up."

The phone call ended. He stood by the window, looking at the locust tree. Qin Huairu came out of the house and hung clothes to dry in the yard. He Nianhua squatted on the ground drawing circles, very seriously, without looking up. The sunlight shone on them, casting short shadows.

When the first batch of rocket launchers was completed, it was already early summer. He Yuzhu went to the factory to watch the test firing. Director Sun stood next to the launch pad, clutching a stopwatch in his hand, his palms sweaty and the dial wet. The twelve launch tubes were arranged in two rows, their military green paint gleaming dimly in the sunlight, the muzzles pointing upwards like twelve eyes.

"Where should we plant it, and give it a try?"

He Yuzhu nodded.

Director Sun turned around and waved to the operator. The man pressed a button, and the rocket shot out, trailing white smoke, with a shrill sound like tearing cloth, making ears ring. A cloud of black smoke exploded on the distant hillside, and a few seconds later, a muffled thud echoed back, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

Ma Yuejin stood to the side, holding up his binoculars for a long time without putting them down.

"Dean, this range is twice as far as our old-fashioned ones."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He thought of the Soviet shells they had captured that year, the AT-3 anti-tank missiles, and those Russian letters. Now, this thing was made by themselves. Director Sun ran over, his face covered in sweat, which dripped from his forehead to his chin and onto his collar.

"Where did it grow? It's done. When will mass production begin?"

He Yuzhu looked at the hillside that was still smoking. When the smoke cleared, it revealed the yellow earth that had been blown up by the explosion.

"Let's begin now."

When the rocket launcher was delivered to the front lines, He Yuzhu didn't go. He sat in his office, took the shell out of his drawer, and placed it on the table. The brass casing gleamed with a dark gold light under the lamp, and the Russian letters on the bottom were worn and blurred. He ran his fingers over the letters; they were uneven.

The phone rang. He answered it, and it was Zhao Dayong on the other end. His voice was intermittent, its volume fluctuating due to the wind.

"Where is the head? The things have arrived. All twelve gates have arrived."

He Yuzhu held the microphone.

"Have you tried it?"

Zhao Dayong didn't answer. He Yuzhu heard someone shouting on the other end, but the voice was far away and he couldn't make out what they were shouting. After a few seconds, Zhao Dayong's voice came through again.

"I tried it out. I fired one, and it flew more than ten kilometers, landing very accurately."

He paused.

"Just wait and see."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu put the shell back in the drawer and closed it. The sky outside was overcast, the clouds were thick, and the light was dim. He stood up, walked to the window, put on the gloves, then took them off and placed them on the table. They were made of Qin Huairu woven fabric, old, with frayed edges, but still wearable.

Three days later, the phone rang again. This time, Zhao Dayong's voice was different; it sounded like it was being squeezed out of his throat, hoarse and strained.

"Chief He, the fight is over."

He Yuzhu tightened his grip on the microphone.

"How is it?"

Zhao Dayong remained silent for a long time. He Yuzhu could hear people running, shouting, and the clanging of metal on the other end. After a while, Zhao Dayong finally spoke.

"Twelve gates, two rounds of fighting. The Indian army retreated."

His voice suddenly lowered, as if he was afraid someone would hear him.

"There were no casualties."

He Yuzhu held the microphone, but didn't speak. He heard someone laughing on the other end, the laughter distant and fleeting, like the wind. Zhao Dayong said something else, but his voice was too soft for him to hear.

"What?"

Zhao Dayong cleared his throat.

The soldiers said, "Thank you."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu stood by the window, looking at the sky outside. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, shining on the old locust tree in the yard, its new leaves a bright green. He stood there for a long time before turning around and sitting down at the table.

The letters arrived the next day. The messenger left them on the table and left, closing the door very quietly. He Yuzhu untied the newspaper bundle; the rubber band was too tight and snapped, hitting his finger and causing a slight pain.

The first letter was written in crooked, messy handwriting, like a primary school student. It was short, just a few lines: "Commander He, I'm a soldier in the Third Company. Last time in battle, we used the cannons you made, and not a single person in our company died. Thank you."

He read it twice and set it aside. The second letter was written in neater handwriting, as if the writer had been educated. "Commander He, I'm from the Second Battalion. The rocket artillery is so effective; the Indian troops run away at the sound. Our platoon leader was wounded and has been sent back to the rear; they say he'll recover. He said he wants to come to Beijing to see you once he's healed."

He set that letter aside as well. The third one was unsigned, containing only one sentence. He stared at it for a long time, his fingers tracing the edge of the paper, which was starting to fray.

"We survived."

He picked up the letter and read it again. Then he folded it, put it back in the envelope, and placed it with the other letters. He rewrapped it in newspaper, secured it with a rubber band, and put it in the back of the drawer.

When the drawer closed, he heard the latch click softly.

That evening, He Yuzhu returned home to find He Nianhua already asleep. Qin Huairu was sewing clothes under the lamp, her stitches fine and precise.

"You're back?"

He Yuzhu sat down next to her. Qin Huairu glanced at him, didn't ask any questions, put away her needlework, and stood up.

Go to bed early.

The light went out. He Yuzhu lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the wind outside. He Nianhua turned over, her small hand resting on his face, warm and soft. He closed his eyes, the words from the letters still swirling in his mind, crooked and uneven, each stroke deliberate.

He turned over, reached under his pillow, and touched the gloves. Qin Huairu had worn them for years. He clutched the gloves in his hands and slowly drifted off to sleep.