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

The day Yang Xiaobing left, it snowed in Beijing. He Yuzhu stood at the entrance of the research institute, watching the jeep start up, a puff of white smoke billowing from its exhaust pipe. Yang Xiaobing sat in the passenger seat, neither turning around nor waving. The car windows were fogged up, obscuring his face. He Yuzhu stood there for a while, until the car turned the corner of the alley, the snow covering the tire tracks.

The journey took two days and one night. Yang Xiaobing leaned against the car window, watching the snow fall from Beijing to Shanhaiguan, and then from Shanhaiguan to Harbin. He couldn't sleep, so he took out his dagger and slowly wiped it with the velvet cloth. Two soldiers in the back seat were already snoring; one was named Zhao Tiezhu, and the other Wang Xiaoshan, both veterans who had followed him for several years. Listening to their snoring, Yang Xiaobing remembered his regimental commander's words—"If you can't get the shot, come back; don't force it." He put the dagger back in and closed his eyes. He couldn't sleep.

When they arrived in Jiayin, it was still dark. The border regiment's barracks were made of wooden planks, with sawdust stuffed into the gaps, offering little protection from the wind. Yang Xiaobing, wrapped in his military overcoat, leaned against the window, watching the Soviet outpost across the way. A searchlight swept across, its beam tracing a white arc on the snow before fading. He counted the seconds, waiting for the next arc. When he reached forty-seven, the beam of light came on again. The changing of the guard lasted less than three minutes.

On the first day, he lay prone in the snow on this side of the border, peering through binoculars at the other side. The cold seeped into his knees, elbows, and chest, feeling like needles pricking his bones. Zhao Tiezhu lay to his right, and Wang Xiaoshan to his left. The three of them remained motionless, like three stones. A searchlight swept overhead, its beam blindingly bright. Yang Xiaobing squinted, waiting for the light to pass before continuing to watch.

The next day, he figured out the pattern. The patrol team made a round every two hours, with a three-minute break between shifts. He drew a simple map on the ground, marking the angle of the searchlights, the patrol team's route, and the sentries' positions. Zhao Tiezhu came over and glanced at it, but didn't say anything. Wang Xiaoshan was cleaning his gun nearby, cleaning it very slowly, one stroke at a time.

"Captain, shall we make our move tonight?" Zhao Tiezhu asked in a low voice.

Yang Xiaobing didn't answer. He stared at the picture for a long time. "Tomorrow night."

On the third night, there was no moon. The snow had stopped, the wind had stopped, and it was so quiet you could hear your own heartbeat. Yang Xiaobing led Zhao Tiezhu and Wang Xiaoshan through a gap in the border. The three men, dressed in white camouflage suits, crawled forward inch by inch in the snow. The snow was deep, up to their knees, and crunched underfoot. He stopped, listened for a while, and, confirming there was no movement, continued forward. When a searchlight swept over them, he buried his face in the snow; the beam of light swept overhead, accompanied by a buzzing electrical sound. When the light passed, he looked up, his face covered in snow, his eyelashes frosted.

The Soviet camp was in a ravine, less than five kilometers from the border. Tents and mobile homes were crammed together, with rows of tanks parked in between, their gun barrels pointing diagonally upwards, gleaming coldly in the moonlight. Yang Xiaobing lay prone on the hillside, looking through binoculars. There were many tanks, one after another, countless. His hands began to tremble, not from the cold, but from the sheer number. He lowered the binoculars, took a deep breath, and raised them again. One, two, three… By the time he counted to around twenty, his eyes were blurry. There were more behind, covered by camouflage netting, impossible to see clearly.

Zhao Tiezhu gently nudged his foot from behind, as if to say: Go ahead and pat him.

Yang Xiaobing raised his camera. It was a German-made camera, given to him by He Yuzhu, with a very quiet shutter. But his hand still trembled as he held it. Not out of fear, but because there were just too many tanks, so many that it made his heart race. He gritted his teeth and pressed the shutter. Click—the sound was terrifyingly loud in the night. He held his breath, waiting for movement from the other side. The searchlight didn't move, the patrol didn't shout. He breathed a sigh of relief and took one more picture, two, three more. He changed his position and took a few more.

Just as he was about to leave, Wang Xiaoshan stepped on a tree branch. Snap—louder than a camera shutter.

Someone shouted from the other side, in Russian, which he couldn't understand. The searchlight turned, its beam sweeping across the snow, less than three meters from where Yang Xiaobing was lying. His heart leaped into his throat, his hand gripping the camera, his knuckles white. The beam swept past. He gestured, and the three of them moved along the snow towards the border.

Gunshots rang out behind him. The first shot hit the spot where he had just been lying prone, sending snow flying and splattering his face. The second shot struck a nearby tree, sending splinters flying. The third and fourth shots followed, their directions indistinguishable. Yang Xiaobing ran through the snow, his legs feeling like lead, snow filling his shoes and making them numb with cold. Zhao Tiezhu ran in front, Wang Xiaoshan in the middle, and he brought up the rear. When they reached a hollow, Wang Xiaoshan groaned and collapsed.

Yang Xiaobing turned back and pulled him up from the snow. Wang Xiaoshan gritted his teeth, his face as white as paper, his right arm covered in blood, a tear in his sleeve from which blood oozed, dripping down his fingers and onto the snow, a glaring red. Yang Xiaobing supported him and they continued running. Bullets whizzed overhead. When they reached the border, the searchlights of the opposite outpost turned, their beams flickering at their feet. They climbed over a small hill and landed on the Chinese side. The pursuers stopped at the other side of the border, called out a few times, but didn't catch up.

Yang Xiaobing put Wang Xiaoshan down and tore open his sleeve. The bullet had grazed his arm, leaving a gash; the flesh was torn open, exposing the fascia underneath, but no bone was broken. He took a bandage from the first-aid kit, wrapped it around several times, and tightened it. Wang Xiaoshan's lips trembled, but he didn't make a sound.

"Can you leave?" Yang Xiaobing asked.

Wang Xiaoshan gritted his teeth, pushed himself up from the snow, and blood streamed down his arm. "I can go now."

It took them forty minutes to get back to the barracks. Yang Xiaobing handed the camera to the communications officer, telling him to develop the photos that night. He sat down in a chair and had the medic re-bandage his wound. The cut on his arm wasn't deep, but the blood had soaked through a large patch of his sleeve, making it sticky. The medic cut the bandage, applied iodine, and although it hurt, he gritted his teeth but didn't make a sound.

As dawn broke, the photos were developed. Yang Xiaobing stood at the table, spreading out the stack of photos one by one. A panoramic view of the camp, tents crammed together. Close-ups of tanks, long gun barrels, low-slung hulls, and steeply angled turrets. Side views, wide tracks, large road wheels. At the edge of the camp, armored vehicles and trucks were parked. He counted them three times. Forty-three were visible. Those covered by camouflage netting were unclear, but the tire tracks on the hillside behind the camp were dense and numerous—there were more than that number.

He put the photo away, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it. The messenger handed him the train ticket; the train was at 3 PM. He slept the whole way, and when he arrived in Beijing, his eyes were still red, and the bandages had been replaced with new ones, their whiteness glaring.

He Yuzhu was waiting in the office. Yang Xiaobing pushed open the door, placed the stack of photos on the table, but didn't take any pictures. He stood there, the bandage on his arm glaringly white, dried scabs on his face, and a cut on the corner of his mouth, it was unclear when. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He Yuzhu picked up the photos and looked at them one by one. He looked at them once, then again. He put the photos down and looked up.

"How many vehicles?"

Yang Xiaobing swallowed hard. "Forty-three vehicles are visible. There are more on the back hill, covered with camouflage netting, countless. There are many more tire tracks, at least double the number."

He Yuzhu pressed his hand on the table. "One hundred vehicles?"

Yang Xiaobing nodded. "At least."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He stood up and walked to the window. It was snowing again outside, the snowflakes small but dense, pattering against the glass. He stood there for a long time.

"Commander," Yang Xiaobing called from behind, his voice hoarse. "Can our missiles penetrate those tanks?"

He Yuzhu turned around. "Yes. It's newly modified, I've tested it, and it broke through."

Yang Xiaobing nodded, his lips twitching as if he wanted to smile, but he didn't. "That's fine then."

He Yuzhu walked up to him and glanced at the bandage on his arm. "How's the injury?"

"A minor scrape."

"Go back and rest for a few days."

Yang Xiaobing responded and turned to walk to the door. He stopped but didn't look back.

"Commander, Wang Xiaoshan is also injured. In his arm, but the bone isn't broken."

He Yuzhu said, "Let him rest too."

Yang Xiaobing pushed open the door and went out. His footsteps in the corridor were very light and soon faded into silence. He Yuzhu stood by the window, took the list from the drawer, and turned to the "reconnaissance" page. After the words "Soviet new tanks," he wrote: Yang Xiaobing led a team across the border and took photos showing that the Soviet army had deployed hundreds of T-64 tanks on the border. Wang Xiaoshan sustained minor injuries and is not seriously hurt.

He finished writing, put the list back, and locked the drawer. He picked up the phone and dialed the General Staff's number. The caller answered; it was a staff officer, his voice urgent.

"Where does it grow?"

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "The Soviet Union has deployed hundreds of new tanks on the border. We've taken photos; we'll send them over tomorrow."

There was a two-second silence on the other end. "Hundreds of vehicles? Are you sure?"

He Yuzhu said, "Confirmed. Yang Xiaobing took the photos, risking gunfire."

There was another two seconds of silence on the other end. "I'll report it right away."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu stood by the window, watching the snow outside. The snow was falling heavier and heavier, covering the large-character posters on the courtyard wall with only a few corners showing, the edges of the paper fluttering in the wind. He took the list out of the drawer again and turned to the page on "Anti-tank Missiles." Baotou, Shenyang, and Xi'an, three factories working together, producing seven hundred missiles a month. Was that enough? No. The new model hadn't entered mass production yet. If those tanks came rushing over tomorrow, what would he use to stop them? He closed the drawer and locked it. Outside the window, the snow was still falling.