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

The phone rang several times before being answered. Sun Desheng's voice on the other end was muffled, as if he had just crawled out of the workshop, with machines still running around him.

"Director He, your call comes at just the right time. A batch of food just exploded."

He Yuzhu held the microphone without saying a word.

"It exploded?" he asked.

"No, no, I meant the furnace. The temperature controller broke, so we replaced it, which took half a day." Sun Desheng paused, as if flipping through a notebook. "The first batch of one hundred has already rolled off the production line and been tested. Two hundred by the end of the month—"

"That's enough," He Yuzhu interrupted him. "When you ship it, send it directly to Northern Xinjiang. The General Staff will give you the address."

There was a moment of silence on Sun Desheng's end. "Northern Xinjiang? They... are they going to make a move there?"

He Yuzhu did not answer. "Deliver on time."

He hung up the phone and dialed Shenyang's number again. The other end answered quickly; Zhao Xiuying's voice was crisp, but tired.

"Director Zhao, how much can Shenyang provide?"

Zhao Xiuying didn't answer immediately. He Yuzhu heard someone shout "Be careful, be careful!" on the other end, followed by a dull thud as something fell to the ground, metallic, and bounced a few times.

"One hundred and fifty," she finally spoke, her voice lower than usual. "They'll be ready by the end of the month. But the workers have been working non-stop for half a month, and some of them have fevers but are still holding on."

He Yuzhu looked at the snow outside the window. The snow had stopped, and the wet edges of the big-character posters on the courtyard wall were visible.

"If you can't hold on, take a half-day break. But the goods at the end of the month can't be missing."

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

Phone calls in Xi'an are the hardest to get through. I dialed three times before someone answered. Li Dehou on the other end spoke slowly, uttering each word one by one.

"Where does it grow... 150 pieces..."

He Yuzhu waited.

"...by the end of the month..."

And so on.

"……no problem."

He Yuzhu took the microphone away from his ear, glanced at it, and then put it back. "Okay."

Li Dehou seemed to want to say something more, but He Yuzhu had already died.

On the day the first batch of missiles was loaded, Old Ma, the freight handler at Baotou Station, squatted beside the railcar, checking off each item on the manifest. The wooden crates were numbered from 001 to 200. He checked off one, glanced at it, checked off another, glanced at it again. When he checked off the 199th one, the pencil in his hand broke.

"What about the other box?"

The porter pointed to the other end of the platform. "It's over there."

Old Ma squinted as he looked over. A wooden crate sat forlornly on the platform, covered with an oilcloth, a thin layer of snow on it.

"Hurry up and move. The truck won't wait for you."

It was almost dark when the wooden crate was hoisted up. Old Ma made the final mark on the manifest and stuffed the pencil stub into his pocket. The train whistled and slowly started moving. He stood on the platform watching the taillights disappear, muttering something under his breath, but no one could hear him.

The special train from Shenyang departed a day later than the one from Baotou. Zhao Xiuying personally escorted the train to the platform. As the workers loaded the goods onto the wagons, she stood by and counted them, counting again and again. When the departure bell rang, she was still standing there, her hands in her pockets, clutching something. As the train started moving, she turned around but didn't look back.

The goods are from Xi'an, the furthest away. Li Dehou called, still in his usual slow, deliberate tone.

"Where is the headman... the car has left... one hundred and fifty... not one missing."

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement. "Thank you for your hard work."

Li Dehou said, "It's not hard work." Before the call ended, he could be heard sniffling on the other end, like he had a cold. After a few seconds, he finally hung up.

The day the missiles arrived in northern Xinjiang, Zhao Dayong stood at the barracks gate, watching a truckload drive in. The truck beds were covered with tarpaulins, bulging and heavy. When the trucks stopped, the soldiers jumped on, unloaded the wooden crates, and stacked them on the snow. Zhao Dayong squatted down, pried open one of the crates, and inside lay a pale green missile, its warhead wrapped in foam, its tail fins folded. He touched it; it was cold.

"Company commander, what's this good stuff?" A young soldier came over, his eyes shining.

Zhao Dayong didn't answer, and closed the box again. "Notify all classes that training will begin tomorrow."

The next day, before dawn, the training ground was already packed with people. Zhao Dayong stood at the very front, holding a missile in his hand, which he raised high.

"This thing is called an anti-tank missile. It's a newly modified version; it can penetrate the Soviets' new tanks."

He paused, then put the missile back into the box.

"Range 3,000 meters. Effective range 2,500 meters."

Someone below gasped. The young soldier raised his hand.

"Company commander, can I give it a try?"

Zhao Dayong glanced at him. "Learn the theory first. What's the rush?"

The soldier lowered his hand, but his eyes remained fixed on the wooden crate.

Training began with disassembly and reassembly. Zhao Dayong disassembled the missile components one by one: the warhead, the shaped charge liner, the fuse, the engine, and the tail fins. He held up each component for everyone to see. Some soldiers took notes, some craned their necks to look, and some squatted on the ground to touch the disassembled parts.

"The warhead is filled with RDX, a new explosive. It's 40% more powerful than the ones we used before." Zhao Dayong held the warhead up so that the people behind him could see it too.

"The shaped charge shield is made of copper and its angle has been optimized. When it hits the armor, it will create a jet of metal with a temperature of several thousand degrees, capable of burning through the steel plate."

The young soldier asked again, "Company commander, how deep can it burn?"

Zhao Dayong glanced at him. "Two hundred and sixty millimeters. The Soviet T-64 has two hundred and fifty millimeters of frontal armor. That's enough."

The soldier nodded and wrote it down in his notebook.

The first live-fire exercise took place on the third day. The target was set up 800 meters away, made of homogeneous steel, 250 millimeters thick. The shooter crouched in front of the launcher, his hands on the button, his knuckles white. Zhao Dayong stood beside him, clutching his binoculars.

"Stay calm."

The shooter lost his footing. The missile darted out, veered off course, grazed the target, and exploded in the snow some distance away, kicking up a cloud of black smoke. The soldiers stood there, stunned, no one speaking.

Zhao Dayong didn't scold him. He pulled the shooter up from the ground, squatted down himself, and readjusted the scope.

"Again."

The second shooter swallowed hard and pressed the button. The missile, trailing a plume of flame, hurtled towards the target. With a deafening boom, the target blasted open, leaving a hole, its edges curled up and blackened. Zhao Dayong walked over and touched the hole; it was hot. He turned around and looked at the soldiers.

"Remember how you played it."

The second archer nodded, his lips still trembling, but the look in his eyes was different.

The moving target was on the fourth day. An old armored vehicle towed a target plate across the training ground, moving slowly but swaying violently. The shooter crouched in front of the launcher, his hands on the buttons, his palms sweaty. Zhao Dayong stood beside him, his binoculars hanging around his neck, not raised.

"Wait. Wait until it's within range."

When the armored vehicle reached two kilometers away, the gunner pressed the button. The missile shot out, arcing through the air, heading straight for the armored vehicle. Boom—the target plate shattered, fragments flying everywhere. One piece flew over and hit the snow, kicking up a cloud of snow.

The soldiers began to applaud. Zhao Dayong didn't applaud; instead, he picked up the phone and dialed He Yuzhu's number.

The phone rang three times before being answered.

"Where it is long, the missile works well. It can penetrate a stationary target at 800 meters and a moving target at 2,000 meters."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. Zhao Dayong heard someone coughing on the other end, as if they had choked on smoke.

"The soldiers are training well. Several can already operate independently. In another week, the whole company will be able to do it."

He Yuzhu said, "Once we've practiced enough, we'll get up there. The Soviets could move at any time."

Zhao Dayong said, "Understood."

He hung up the phone, stood on the training field, and looked across. There were two more searchlights on the Soviet side than yesterday, their beams sweeping across the snow as if searching for something. In the distance came the rumble of engines, a deep, muffled sound coming from the other side of the mountains; it didn't seem like just one or two vehicles.

He crouched down and touched the snow. The snow was cold, but his palm was warm.

A soldier walked over and stood beside him.

"Company commander, do they know?"

Zhao Dayong didn't answer. He stood up, brushed the snow off his knees, and turned to walk back to the barracks.

"Double the number of sentries."