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

At 2:17 a.m., the phone rang.

He Yuzhu sat up abruptly from the kang (a heated brick bed), his left knee hitting the edge of the bed in the sudden movement, making him wince in pain. He Nianhua groaned, rolled over, waved his little hands outside the covers a couple of times, and then fell back into a deep sleep. Qin Huairu opened his eyes, didn't speak, only glanced at him. He put on his cotton-padded coat, his bare feet numb from the cold floor, and hurried to the outer room, grabbing the microphone.

A crackling sound of electricity came from the other end, mixed with heavy, rapid breathing, like someone running a long way through the snow. Then Zhao Dayong's voice squeezed in, hoarse and low, as if afraid of being heard by something.

"Where is the commander... the Soviets have made their move."

He Yuzhu held the microphone, not urging him.

"Tanks. Three of them. They came from the other side and got onto the ice." Zhao Dayong swallowed hard, the sound of his Adam's apple bobbing could be heard even through the microphone. "T-62...it's a T-62. The gun barrel is longer than the T-55's, I can see it clearly."

He Yuzhu tapped his right index finger lightly on the table, then stopped. "Where are we?"

"We've landed on the island. We're still advancing." Zhao Dayong caught his breath. "Our men have withdrawn, and the anti-tank team is waiting on the island. All three missiles are ready."

He Yuzhu closed his eyes, the hand-drawn map of Zhenbao Island appearing in his mind. The island was shaped like a willow leaf, less than a hundred meters wide at its narrowest point and only three or four hundred meters wide at its widest. The anti-tank team's pre-arranged positions were behind the pile of rocks on the west side of the island, offering a wide field of fire, but the ice surface reflected light intensely, making it easy for the scope to lose focus. He opened his eyes. "What's the distance?"

Zhao Dayong's voice lowered, as if he were covering the microphone. "1200. Still close." He paused. He heard someone shouting something on the other end, but couldn't make it out, then he heard Zhao Dayong's rapid breathing. "...1200."

He Yuzhu's Adam's apple bobbed. "Wait. Wait until they bring in six hundred."

A soft "Understood" came from the other end of the phone, then the call ended. He Yuzhu held the receiver, listening to the busy tone, each beat like a heartbeat. He put down the phone, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains open a crack. It was pitch black outside; he couldn't see anything. The moon was nowhere to be seen, not even a single star. He stood there for a moment, then turned and went back inside, taking out the long-unworn military belt from the closet, fastening it around his waist, and tightening it. Qin Huairu turned to the side, glanced at him, her lips moved, but she didn't say anything.

He sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) for a while, then stood up, went to the outer room, and stood in front of the table. On the table was a map of Zhenbao Island, with contour lines drawn in pencil, densely marked with distances, bearings, and firing arcs. He stared at the red dot marked "Anti-Tank Team," his finger tracing from the east side of the island to the west side, then back again, pausing, and then tracing it again.

The phone rang. He practically lunged at it and grabbed the receiver.

Zhao Dayong's voice changed; it wasn't lowered anymore, but rose, carrying an uncontrollable force. "Chief He, you hit him."

He Yuzhu gripped the microphone tightly, his knuckles turning white. "Speak."

"The first one, frontal. The missile veered slightly as it left the launcher; I thought it was going to fly out of control, but then it straightened up again. The operator's hands were shaking terribly, but he managed to steady it in the end." Zhao Dayong's voice began to tremble. "It hit the turret head-on and penetrated it. The tank was lying there, tilted, the gun barrel resting on the ice, like a dead pig. The second one tried to escape, but the second missile hit the gap between the turret and the hull, causing the ammunition to detonate. The turret flew off and smashed into the ice, creating a hole."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He heard someone shouting on the other end, many voices mixed together, and he couldn't make out what they were shouting.

"The third one got away." Zhao Dayong's voice suddenly dropped, as if he had choked on something. "It ran faster than a rabbit. Once it crossed the river's center line, we couldn't reach it."

He Yuzhu held the microphone and remained silent for about three seconds. "Are the missiles effective?"

Zhao Dayong's voice rose again. "It works. One shot through the front, the Soviets' boasting has been exposed."

He Yuzhu switched the microphone to his left hand, wiping his right hand on his trouser leg; his palms were sweaty. "Where is he?"

"A few ran out and lay on the ice. Our men went up and tied them up." Zhao Dayong paused. "Chief He, that tank with its turret blown off is still smoking. The other one is leaning over there, its tracks broken, it can't move."

He Yuzhu glanced at the clock on the wall. 4:12 AM. "Stay vigilant. Wait for dawn."

The phone call ended. He stood at the table, picked up the map, and pressed his finger on the red dot marked "Anti-Tank Team" on the east side of the island for a long time. Then he folded the map, put it in the drawer, and locked it.

After daybreak, the phone rang again. This time it was a staff officer from the General Staff Department; his voice sounded off, like he had just finished running.

"Commander He, the footage is back. The T-62's frontal armor has been penetrated, and one of the turrets has been blown off. There's an uproar at the General Staff headquarters; some people are banging on the table, some are whistling, and some are throwing their hats onto the ceiling. Commander Chen wants you to take this call."

A different person answered the microphone; their voice was hoarse and panting. "Xiao He, your missiles are working well."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "It works."

Commander Chen paused for two seconds. "The Soviets left a T-62 on the ice, intact, just with broken tracks. We need to find a way to tow it back. If we can't tow it back, we'll dismantle it, and bring back even the parts. We need to study it and see what its structure is like."

He Yuzhu glanced out the window. The sun was out, shining on the courtyard wall, causing the edges of the big-character posters to curl up and flutter in the wind. "I'll go think of a way."

The call ended. He picked up another phone and dialed Zhao Dayong's number. The other end answered quickly, as if someone was standing right next to the phone.

"Zhao Dayong, find a way to tow that T-62 back."

Zhao Dayong was taken aback. "Drag it back? Where to drag it?"

"Tow it over here. Find a flatbed truck and use steel cables. If the Soviets try to take it, open fire."

Zhao Dayong was silent for a few seconds, as if processing his words. Then he spoke, his voice a few decibels deeper than before. "Chief He, the Soviets are watching. Those tanks on the other side of the river, their gun barrels are always pointed this way."

He Yuzhu gripped the microphone. "We have to keep an eye on it and drag it away. That vehicle on the ice is our trophy."

Zhao Dayong didn't say anything more and hung up.

He Yuzhu walked to the window and drew back the curtains. The sun had already risen, shining on the jujube tree in the yard, its bare branches casting long, thin shadows on the ground. He took the gloves out of his pocket, squeezed them, and then put them back.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the phone rang. He Yuzhu answered it, and it was Zhao Dayong on the other end, his voice tense.

"It's too long to drag."

He Yuzhu tapped his finger on the table. "What's going on?"

"The steel cable was attached, the armored vehicle pulled it twice, the tank moved slightly, then got stuck again. The ice was too slippery, the tracks were frozen in the ice. We chiseled for half an hour, but couldn't get it moving," Zhao Dayong said, catching his breath. "The Soviets saw us dragging it and started shelling. The shells landed on the other side of the river, less than two hundred meters from us."

He Yuzhu stood up, walked to the window, and then walked back. "Change the location. Drag it from the side. Wrap the steel cable around the turret, but don't attach it to the tracks."

There was a few seconds of silence on Zhao Dayong's end. "Okay. I'll try again."

The call ended. He Yuzhu sat back in his chair, pulled the map out of the drawer, and spread it out. He traced his finger from the east side of the island to the mid-river line, and then from the mid-river line to the west bank. He stared at the ice surface, his mind filled with the image of the T-62 with its turret askew, its tracks stuck in the ice, the steel cables creaking under the tension.

The phone rang again. He answered, and Zhao Dayong's voice on the other end had changed; it wasn't tense, but rather sharp and inflamed. "Commander He, it's moving. Pull to the side, the tank is slowly inching forward, inch by inch. It's crossed the river's center line. The Soviet artillery fire has stopped."

He Yuzhu gripped the microphone, leaning back in his chair, which creaked softly. "Did you bring it back?"

"It's been towed back. It's parked on the riverbank. We've sent people to guard it." Zhao Dayong paused, his voice lowering. "Chief He, that thing is really heavy. The armored vehicle was belching black smoke as it pulled it, and one of the steel cables broke; we had to replace it before we could get it across."

He Yuzhu closed his eyes. "Thank you for your hard work."

Zhao Dayong didn't answer. All that could be heard on the other end of the line was the howling wind and the faint sound of shouts from afar.

He Yuzhu opened his eyes and glanced at the clock on the wall. 4:41 PM. "Find a flatbed truck, cover it with a tarpaulin, and transport it back tonight. Don't let anyone see it."

Zhao Dayong said, "Understood."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu folded the map, put it back in the drawer, and locked it. The sun outside the window began to set, casting long shadows of the big-character posters on the courtyard wall. He stood up, drew the curtains, and sat back down at the table.

That evening, He Yuzhu returned home. He Nianhua was hunched over the table doing her homework; her pencil had broken, and she was carefully shaving it with a knife, the wood shavings falling onto the table and curling into a ball. Qin Huairu was busy at the stove, the spatula clanging against the iron pot. He Yuzhu sat down in a chair, took his gloves out of his pocket, and placed them on the table.

After sharpening her pencil, He Nianhua looked up. "Dad, today the teacher taught us how to write the character '胜' (shèng, meaning 'victory')."

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

He Nianhua put down her pencil and drew on the table with her finger. "A moon on the left, a student on the right. The teacher said that '胜' means victory, it means winning."

He Yuzhu picked him up and placed him on his lap. The child was heavy again, making it difficult to lift him. He Nianhua leaned on his shoulder, silent for a while before asking, "Dad, did we win?"

He Yuzhu nodded. "We won."

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, took a piece of egg, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed it a couple of times, and mumbled, "Dad, it's good that you won."

He Yuzhu picked up a piece of cabbage for him. "Mm. It's good that you won."

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

That night, He Yuzhu lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the wind outside. He Nianhua turned over, her little hand resting on his face—warm and soft. He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. Moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the room. He gently placed He Nianhua's little hand back under the covers and turned over as well.

The T-62 was parked on the riverbank, covered with a tarpaulin. One of the steel cables had snapped, and the armored vehicle was billowing black smoke as it was pulled, but it was still towed over. In a few days, it would be transported to Beijing, disassembled, studied, and a better version made.