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

At 3:30 a.m., the light in the command post cast He Yuzhu's shadow on the wall.

He stood by the window, his fingers digging into the frame, his nails embedding themselves in the wood. It was pitch black outside, the moon had somehow disappeared behind the clouds, and there wasn't a single star in sight. The wind blew in from the border, carrying a damp, earthy smell mixed with a hint of burnt earth—the Soviet camp across the border hadn't turned off its lights all night, the diesel generators churning and sputtering, their commotion audible for kilometers around.

Zhao Dayong lifted the curtain and came in, bringing with him a blast of cold air. His face was still smudged with the grass-green camouflage of his uniform, and there were dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for three days.

"Chief He, the artillery positions are ready. All twelve guns are loaded."

He Yuzhu didn't turn around. "Where's the artillery?"

"More than a hundred, targeting the Soviet second echelon, just waiting for your order." Zhao Dayong's voice was very low, but the dryness in his throat was hard to hide.

He Yuzhu turned around and walked to the table. The map had been lying there for three days, its edges worn and frayed. The Soviets, gathered in the red circle, had been drawn over and over again, the pencil marks so heavy they looked like they had been carved in. He stared at the circle and pressed his finger on it.

"Is Engineer Zhou on the front lines?"

"Yes. He said he's waiting for your order."

He Yuzhu glanced at the alarm clock on the table. 3:41. He counted each tick of the second hand. Zhao Dayong stood beside him, neither urging him nor moving. The two of them just stood there, listening to the clock tick-tock.

It was 3:45. He Yuzhu picked up the phone and shook it twice. The other end answered quickly, as if they had been waiting.

"Engineer Zhou."

"Here." That single word was taut like a violin string.

He Yuzhu closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Four o'clock sharp. Volley."

There was a three-second silence on the other end of the phone. It wasn't hesitation, but the sound of someone chewing their words out and swallowing them.

"……clear."

Click, it's over.

He Yuzhu held the microphone, not letting go. The busy tone went off for a few seconds before he finally put the microphone down.

It was 3:52. Zhao Dayong went out and came back in, carrying two enamel mugs. He placed one in front of He Yuzhu, and held the other himself, not drinking from it, just holding it as if to warm his hands with its warmth.

"Director He, do you think the Soviets might move ahead of schedule?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He picked up the jar and took a sip; the water was cold and astringent. He put the jar down, walked to the map, and looked at the red circle again.

It was 3:58. Zhao Dayong put down the jar, stood at the door, and lifted the curtain to look outside. It was pitch black outside; he couldn't see anything. He pulled back down, and the curtain fell with a thud.

3:59.

He Yuzhu stood at the doorway and lifted the curtain a crack. A cold wind rushed in, stinging his face. He stared at the darkness opposite, seeing nothing. But he knew that in that darkness, Soviet tanks were lined up in square formations, their cannons facing south, tarpaulins covering the barrels. Thousands of people slept in tents, some snoring, some with their eyes open, waiting for the order.

Four o'clock sharp.

The earth did not tremble—it was as if an unseen giant hand had suddenly lifted it up from below.

He Yuzhu gripped the doorframe, his fingertips digging into the wood. He could still count when the first trail of flame lit up; the second, the third, the fourth… all twelve trails of flame shot out simultaneously, illuminating the birch forest in a dark red light, his shadow flickering three times on the wall. Rockets, trailing orange-red fiery tails, flew overhead, densely packed like a swarm of moths drawn to a flame, yet many times faster.

The sky changed from black to dark red, then from dark red to orange. His mouth was agape, his ears ringing, and he couldn't hear anything. Zhao Dayong squeezed out from behind him, also leaning against the doorframe, his mouth opening and closing, but what he was shouting was unintelligible.

A dozen seconds later, the other side exploded.

The first burst of fire rose from the ravine, like someone had lit a sun underground. Then came the second, the third… a cascade that spread, turning half the sky blood red. The explosions came several seconds later, not just one, but hundreds piled together, muffled and heavy, making his chest tighten. He Yuzhu's binoculars trembled in his hands; he steadied them by pressing the tube against the doorframe.

In the flames, the tank's turret was ripped into the air, tumbled several times, and crashed down. The armored vehicle's hull was torn apart like cardboard, ammunition detonated, and flashes of white light followed one after another.

Zhao Dayong's mouth was still moving, and this time he heard—not heard, but saw—his lips move. "Hit!"

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He moved the binoculars away from his eyes and wiped the lenses with his sleeve. There was no dust on the lenses, and he didn't know why he was wiping them.

Three rounds of rocket artillery fire, 144 rounds in total, all landing in that ravine. The sound from the artillery position changed from shrill to hoarse, then from hoarse to muffled. The artillery then opened fire, over a hundred cannons firing simultaneously, shells landing on the Soviet second echelon positions, exploding into clusters of orange-red fireballs. Aircraft flew overhead, their engines rattling the canvas on the tent roofs.

Zhao Dayong ran back to the command post, grabbed the phone, and shouted as if he were arguing with someone. "Anti-tank team report! The Soviets haven't charged! They're in disarray, the tanks are spinning in circles!"

He Yuzhu didn't turn around. He stood at the doorway, looking at the still-burning mountain across the way. The firelight reflected on his face, casting a long shadow on the wall behind him, motionless.

At daybreak, the scouts returned.

The jeep was parked in front of the command post, the engine off, but still steaming. A young soldier jumped out, his face covered in ash, which mixed with sweat and formed mud streaks that ran from his forehead to his chin. He ran to He Yuzhu, saluted, and paused in mid-air—he realized his hand was trembling, clenched it tightly, and then lowered it.

"Chief He, reconnaissance report." His voice was hoarse, as if sandpaper was stuffed in his throat. "The Soviet assembly point has been destroyed. More than thirty tanks, more than forty armored vehicles, and more than sixty trucks have been destroyed. At least three hundred casualties."

He Yuzhu looked at him. "They left?"

"They've retreated. They've withdrawn more than ten kilometers and are currently regrouping their troops. Reconnaissance planes saw their tanks moving backward, some towing damaged equipment, others driving themselves. They lost a lot of parts along the way."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He turned around, walked back to the table, and drew a line on the map with a pencil, marking the red circle. He drew very slowly, and a piece of the pencil lead broke off, but he didn't replace it.

Zhao Dayong rushed in from outside, unable to contain his laughter. "Chief He, the Soviets have fled! Tanks and armored vehicles have all reversed, leaving parts everywhere!"

He Yuzhu looked up. "What about casualties?"

"We didn't! The rocket launchers were gone after they finished firing, and the artillery was gone too. When the Soviets retaliatory artillery came, there wasn't a soul on the position."

He Yuzhu picked up the broken pencil lead from the paper and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

In the afternoon, he went to the artillery position. The twelve rocket launchers were still parked behind the birch forest, their barrels facing south, slightly warm. Engineer Zhou squatted on the ground, shining a flashlight on the launch rails, checking them one by one. Beside him was a notebook filled with numbers.

Seeing He Yuzhu approach, he stood up, his legs went numb from squatting, and he swayed slightly before grabbing the gun mount for support.

"Hey, the cannon's fine. It can still fire."

He Yuzhu walked to the front of the first cannon and reached out to touch the barrel. It was hot, much hotter than his palm. He placed his hand on it and didn't pull it back.

How much ammunition do we have left?

Engineer Zhou opened his notebook. "Each cannon has four rounds left, for a total of forty-eight rounds. Enough for another salvo."

He Yuzhu withdrew his hand from the cannon barrel. "Supplement. Have another batch sent from Shenyang."

Engineer Zhou nodded and made a note in his notebook.

He Yuzhu turned around and looked at the mountains opposite. The Soviet tanks had withdrawn, but not far. The scouts said they stopped fifteen kilometers away and were digging trenches. Yang Xiaobing walked over from behind and stood beside him, holding nothing in his hands.

"Commander, the Soviets haven't gone far."

He Yuzhu didn't reply. He picked up his binoculars and looked across. Through the binoculars, several helicopters circled along the hazy mountain ridge, like vultures.

He put the binoculars down; the lenses were covered in a layer of dust. He wiped them with his sleeve, then held them up again for a glance.

"They will come again."

Yang Xiaobing didn't ask why, nor did he say "no." He just stood there, looking across at the other side.

He Yuzhu turned around and walked towards the command post. After a few steps, he stopped and looked back.

"Zhou, the matter of replenishing ammunition is urgent."

Engineer Zhou responded.

He Yuzhu continued walking forward. Yang Xiaobing followed behind, their footsteps rustling on the gravel.