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

As the black sedan turned into the alley, its body was covered in a layer of dust, and its license plate, an outward-style one, gleamed a dull white in the winter sunlight. He Yuzhu stood at the entrance of the research institute, watching the car slowly approach, its tires crunching over the gravel on the road. The car stopped, the exhaust pipe sputtered twice, and then it shut off.

The door opened, and three people got out.

The leader was a thin man in his fifties, with high cheekbones, a sallow complexion, and chapped lips. He stood beside the car, first looking up at the entrance of the research institute, then looking down to straighten the collar of his Zhongshan suit before walking forward. His hands emerged from his sleeves; they were rough, with large knuckles and yellowish calluses on the base of his thumbs, clearly the result of years of handling guns.

The translator was a young man wearing glasses and carrying a bulging briefcase, following behind. There was another person, silent, standing at the very back, clutching a faded canvas bag.

"Dean He, this is Regiment Commander Nguyen from the Vietnam Air Defense Bureau." The translator turned to the side and handed over the message.

Commander Ruan took a step forward and extended his hand. He Yuzhu grasped it; the hand was thin and bony, but gripped tightly, the knuckles digging into it. Commander Ruan's lips moved, as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he swallowed the words back. He released his hand, took a half-step back, and waited for the translator to speak.

The translator adjusted his glasses. "Commander Nguyen said, 'Thank you for the support from our Chinese comrades; the Vietnamese people will never forget it.'"

He Yuzhu ushered them inside. One of the corridor lights was broken, leaving only the green light for the emergency exit illuminated by the mottled marks on the walls. Commander Ruan walked at the front, his long strides making a clicking sound as his leather shoes clicked on the terrazzo floor. He stopped at the conference room door, waiting for He Yuzhu to open it before following him inside.

As soon as the tea was poured, Commander Ruan pulled a map from his briefcase and spread it on the table. The map was hand-drawn, the paper yellowed, the edges curled, and the creases frayed. He pointed to several red circles with his finger, muttering a long string of words rapidly, as if racing against time. The translator beside him translated sentence by sentence, his voice very low.

"The US bombing is becoming more and more frequent. They take off from Da Nang, fly north along the coastline, and bomb all the way to Hanoi. Their planes are too fast for radar to track. Their anti-aircraft guns are too old and inaccurate."

He Yuzhu looked at the map. Red circles stretched from south to north, one after another, like footprints in the snow. He looked up and saw Commander Ruan's eyes—deep-set, yellowish whites, and bloodshot eyes, as if he hadn't slept for many nights.

"What do you need?"

Commander Ruan took another piece of paper from his briefcase and handed it over. The list was written in pen, the handwriting messy, but every item was clearly written: anti-aircraft guns, radar, ammunition, spare parts. Numbers followed, some circled, some crossed out.

He Yuzhu looked at the list twice, tracing its outline with his finger. One hundred cannons, ten radars, and the ammunition was exactly as they had counted, not a penny less. He put the list down without saying a word.

Commander Ruan stared at him, waiting. His hands were on his knees, his fingers unconsciously tapping the seam of his trousers, once, once, and again. He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. The sky outside was overcast, looking like it was about to snow. The big-character posters on the courtyard wall had been replaced; the edges of the paper were curled up, rustling loudly in the wind. He stood there for a while, then turned around.

"We can provide one hundred anti-aircraft guns. Five radars. As for ammunition, reduce the amount on your list by 30%."

The translator translated the message, his voice lower than before. Commander Ruan's expression changed; his lips tightened into a thin line, and his Adam's apple bobbed again. He lowered his head, looking at the list, his fingers still tapping along the seam of his trousers, faster than before.

The room fell silent. Someone walked past in the corridor, their footsteps distant. The kettle gurgled on the stove, steam rising from its spout. Commander Ruan looked up, as if to say something, but then swallowed his words. He stood up, walked to He Yuzhu, and extended his hand.

He Yuzhu grasped it. The hand gripped it even tighter than before, then loosened, then gripped again. Commander Ruan opened his mouth, each word escaping stiffly but clearly.

"Thank you. China. Comrade."

After he finished speaking, his lips were still moving, as if he wanted to add something, but he couldn't. He Yuzhu patted the back of his hand.

"Go back and tell your men that the cannons have arrived, so fire them well."

Commander Ruan nodded, his eyes reddening. He folded the list, stuffed it back into his briefcase, and stood at the door, refusing to leave. The translator whispered beside him, "Commander Ruan wants to see the production line."

He Yuzhu led them towards the workshop. The corridor was still dark, except for the green lights at the emergency exits. Commander Ruan walked quickly with long strides, so He Yuzhu had to quicken his pace to keep up.

When the workshop door opened, a wave of heat rushed out, mixed with the smell of machine oil and rust. The lights were blindingly bright, the machines were running, and the belts were clattering. The workers were working with their heads down, some in front of the lathes, some behind the welding torches, their faces covered in dust, making it impossible to tell who was who.

Commander Ruan stood motionless at the doorway. He stared at the row of cannon barrels stacked on the shelf, gleaming coldly under the light, each one perfectly aligned. He walked over, reached out, and slowly ran his fingers over the barrels, from one end to the other. He touched the first one, then the second. By the time he touched the third, his fingers were trembling.

The workers in the workshop stopped and looked up at him. One young worker had forgotten to put down his wrench and was just holding it, staring at him. An older worker next to him gave him a nudge, and he lowered his head and continued working, striking the hammer even louder than before, clanging and banging.

Ma Yuejin walked over from behind and stood next to He Yuzhu, lowering his voice. "Dean, a hundred cannons. We've almost emptied our own inventory."

He Yuzhu did not respond.

Ma Yuejin took another half step forward. "The factory's production lines have been stopping and starting repeatedly. The workers are working non-stop; some haven't been home for three days."

He Yuzhu watched as Commander Ruan stood in front of the row of cannon barrels, his fingers still touching them. He turned to Ma Yuejin. "How much stock is left?"

Ma Yuejin pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through it. "Anti-aircraft guns, if we gather them, we can get a hundred. Radar, we only have three, we're two short. Ammunition, we can reduce their numbers by 30%, that'll be enough. But after reducing that 30%, we won't have much left."

He Yuzhu thought for a moment. "Three copies it is. Send them over first. We'll finish the rest later."

Ma Yuejin opened his mouth, as if to say something. He Yuzhu didn't give him a chance. "When the artillery reaches Vietnam, it can shoot down planes. If the planes come down, fewer of our men will die."

Ma Yuejin closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket. "Okay. I'll make the arrangements."

He turned and ran, his footsteps clattering on the concrete.

Commander Ruan walked over and stood in front of He Yuzhu, extending his hand again. This time he didn't clench his fist as tightly, but he held it for a long time. When he released it, he took a small cloth bag out of his pocket and handed it to He Yuzhu. He Yuzhu didn't take it.

Commander Ruan said a few words, which the translator translated. "Commander Ruan said this is a small token of their appreciation. Rubber, gold, grain. Things on the list can't be taken for nothing."

He Yuzhu looked at the small cloth bag but didn't take it. "Send the things over first. We'll talk about the supplies later."

The translator translated the message. Commander Ruan shook his head, shoved the cloth bag into He Yuzhu's hand, and gripped his fingers tightly, preventing him from letting go. "No. I can't take it for free."

He Yuzhu looked down at the hand; it was thin and dry, with prominent veins, and the nails were trimmed very short. He looked up and met Commander Ruan's eyes. "Rubber, gold, grain—these are all things we lack. You give them, we'll take them. But the artillery must be transported first; we can't wait."

After the translator finished speaking, Commander Ruan remained silent for a moment before releasing his grip. He put the cloth bag back in his pocket, patted it, and nodded.

As the car started moving, Commander Ruan, sitting in the back seat, rolled down the window and leaned out. He waved, his lips moved, but no sound came out. The car drove out of the alley, turned onto the main road, its taillights flashing as it grew farther and farther away. He Yuzhu stood at the door, watching the car disappear at the intersection. A cool breeze blew in, and he pulled his collar up. He stood there for a long time before turning and going inside.

That evening, He Nianhua was doing her homework at the table, the pencil stub scratching on the paper. He Yuzhu sat down in a chair, took the list out of his pocket, looked it over, folded it, and put it in the drawer.

"Dad, today the teacher taught us how to write the character '援' (yuán, meaning 'aid' or 'support')."

He Yuzhu looked at him. "How do you write the character '援' (yuan)?"

He Nianhua put down her pencil and drew on the table with her finger. "On the left is a hand radical, and on the right is a love radical. The teacher said that '援' means 'to assist,' which means to help others."

He Yuzhu picked him up and placed him on his lap. The child was heavier than last year, making it difficult to lift. He Nianhua leaned on his shoulder without saying a word.

"Dad, aren't we helping others?"

He Yuzhu nodded. "Yes."

He Nianhua slid off his lap and lay back down on the table to write. Qin Huairu brought out the dishes: a plate of scrambled eggs, a plate of stewed cabbage, and a bowl of soup. He Nianhua climbed onto the stool, picked up his chopsticks, and popped a piece of egg into his mouth.

He Yuzhu sat there, watching them, without touching his chopsticks. Qin Huairu placed a piece of food on his plate, and he lowered his head to eat slowly.