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

It took He Yuzhu two days and one night of swaying train rides before he finally returned to Beijing.

The snow outside the car window changed from white to gray, then from gray to black. Yang Xiaobing sat opposite, looking at the list that had been seized from the forest farm several times, before finally folding it and stuffing it into his pocket. Old Lu leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed, but He Yuzhu knew he wasn't asleep—his fingers were constantly tapping lightly on his knees, the rhythm of which was the same as the sound of wheels rolling over the seams of railway tracks.

At daybreak, the train passed Shanhaiguan. Half a day later, it arrived at Beijing Station.

He Yuzhu didn't go home. He went straight to his office, pushed open the door, and saw a thick stack of documents on his desk. The top one was an urgent telegram from the General Staff Department, on thin paper, with messy handwriting, and signed Commander Chen. He had just pulled the telegram out when the phone rang.

Commander Chen's voice was lower than usual, as if he were suppressing something. He Yuzhu heard him light a cigarette; the lighter clicked once, followed by a long exhale.

"Xiao He, I have something to tell you."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue.

"The Soviet Union has sent two more divisions. Tanks and helicopters have all arrived. The border guards say they can hear the artillery fire from the training grounds across the border even at midnight."

Commander Chen paused for a moment, as if taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

"We got the better deal at Zhenbao Island. This time they're determined to get their revenge."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "Just tell me what you need."

Commander Chen was silent for a few seconds. "Anti-tank missiles. The more the better. Anti-aircraft weapons, too. Last time we captured T-62s, and the Soviets lost face. This time, we'll use new stuff."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He stood up, walked to the wall, and looked at the map that had been hanging there for almost two years. The border stretched for thousands of kilometers from Heilongjiang to Xinjiang, riddled with gaps. Once the Soviet tank formations broke through, they wouldn't be able to stop them.

"The anti-tank missile production lines are currently located in three factories in Baotou, Shenyang, and Xi'an. I'll coordinate to increase production capacity."

Commander Chen asked, "How long?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment. "One month. The first batch of goods will be shipped out in one month."

Commander Chen didn't answer immediately. The only sound on the other end of the phone was the sound of someone smoking—taking a drag, pausing, then taking another drag.

"Okay. I'll wait for you."

The phone hangs up.

He Yuzhu sat at the table and took the list out of the drawer. Turning to the page on "Military Industry," after the words "Anti-tank Missiles," he wrote a few lines: Baotou Factory, 300 missiles per month; Shenyang Factory, 200 missiles per month; Xi'an Factory, 200 missiles per month. Total: 700 missiles.

After finishing writing, he picked up the phone and dialed Baotou's number.

Sun Desheng answered the phone; his voice was hoarse, as if he had just come from the workshop.

"Director He, to be honest with you, we're currently producing 200 units a month, working three shifts, with the machines running non-stop and the workers on the go. If you want to increase it to 300 units, we won't have enough equipment or manpower."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "The equipment will be brought in from Shanghai, and the staff will be brought in from all over the country. You just need to focus on production."

Sun Desheng was silent for a while on the other end. "Director He, there's something else. None of our factory has ever touched those CNC machine tools that came from Shanghai."

He Yuzhu said, "I'll send someone to you. They'll be transferred from Beijing. They'll arrive within three days."

Sun Desheng said, "Okay. Once the people arrive, we can get started."

He Yuzhu dialed Shenyang's number again. Zhao Xiuying answered, her voice crisp but weary.

"Director He, the equipment has been replaced, but the materials are not keeping up. There are no factories in Shenyang that produce missile chips, so we need to import them from other places, which requires approval."

He Yuzhu said, "I'll handle the permits. You just need to get the production line ready."

Zhao Xiuying said, "Okay. The equipment has arrived, and we have the people; all we're missing are the materials."

He Yuzhu dialed the Xi'an number again. Li Dehou spoke slowly, enunciating each word clearly.

"Director He, the workers have arrived, but there's nowhere for them to stay. There aren't enough dormitories, so some workers are sleeping on the floor for half a month now."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "Let's rent a house nearby first. I'll take care of the money."

Li Dehou said, "Alright. With accommodations settled, people's hearts will be at ease."

He Yuzhu put down the phone and sat down at the table. He hadn't finished reading the stack of documents yet; the top one was a telegram from the General Staff. He pulled it out and read it again. Commander Chen's handwriting was messy, but the last sentence was written with great force: "The new Soviet tanks must be taken very seriously."

He stood up and walked to the window. The sky outside was overcast, looking like it was about to snow. The large-character posters on the courtyard wall rustled in the wind, their edges curling up. He looked at them for a while, then drew the curtains.

A month later, the first batch of goods was shipped to northern Xinjiang.

He Yuzhu went to Fengtai Railway Station. The light bulbs on the platform were covered with a layer of dust, and the light didn't shine far, illuminating the wooden crates, making the numbers on the crates hard to read. Workers used forklifts to load the crates onto flatbed trucks. The forklifts hummed, and the crates fell with a loud thud, shaking the ground.

The train from Baotou arrived first, with thirty carriages. The train from Shenyang arrived later, with twenty carriages. The train from Xi'an arrived last, also with twenty carriages. Three trains, seventy carriages, and seven hundred missiles. He Yuzhu stood on the platform, watching the carriages being hung together, forming a long military train.

Ma Yuejin stood to the side, clutching the notebook in his hand, his knuckles white. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no words came out. Finally, he closed the notebook, put it in his pocket, and patted it.

"Dean, these seven hundred missiles are enough to fight a tough battle."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He walked to the front of the military train and reached out to touch the metal of the last carriage. It was cold, rough, and the paint was peeling off a bit. He tapped it; it sounded hollow.

"Better safe than sorry."

The whistle sounded. The train slowly started moving, its wheels rolling over the seams of the rails, one after another, the intervals getting shorter and shorter until they became a continuous line. He Yuzhu stood on the platform, watching the military train go further and further away, its taillights flashing, until it finally disappeared into the night.

Yang Xiaobing walked over from behind and stood beside him. He didn't speak, just stood there, staring into the darkness. After a long time, he finally spoke.

"Commander, this truckload of stuff will give the Soviets a run for their money when we get there."

He Yuzhu didn't turn around. He turned and walked out of the station. Yang Xiaobing followed behind, their footsteps echoing on the empty platform.

Back in his office, it was already dark. He Yuzhu sat down at his desk and took the list out of his drawer. Turning to the "Military Industry" page, after "Anti-Tank Missiles," he added a line: The first batch of seven hundred missiles has been sent to the northern border.

He finished writing, put the list back, and locked the drawer. Just as he put the key in his pocket, the phone rang.

Old Sun's voice was very low, as if he were speaking through a microphone.

"Old He, there's something I'm not sure if I should tell you."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "Speak."

Old Sun was silent for a few seconds. "Something new has arrived from the Soviet Union."

"What is it?"

"A tank. The kind I've never seen before. It's a size bigger than a T-62, and the gun barrel is longer too. The border patrol reconnaissance soldiers took a few photos, but they're blurry and the details aren't clear. But one thing is certain—the frontal armor is at least a third thicker than that of a T-62."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He stood up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains open a crack. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds and shone on the courtyard wall, casting patches of shadows from the big-character posters on the ground.

Old Sun sighed on the other end of the line. "It's hard to say whether our anti-tank missiles can penetrate it."

He Yuzhu switched the microphone to the other ear. "Where are the photos?"

"I had it sent over. It'll be on your desk tomorrow."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu stood by the window, looking at the night outside. The moon was obscured by clouds again; it was pitch black, and he couldn't see anything. He drew the curtains, walked back to the table, and sat down. He hadn't finished reading the stack of documents yet; the top one was a telegram from the General Staff. He pulled out the telegram and read it again. Commander Chen's last sentence was written with great force; the back of the paper bulged.