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

A leech crawled into my trouser leg.

Yang Xiaobing didn't move. He lay prone behind the bushes, his left hand pressing down on Xiao Zhao's arm, his right hand gripping the dagger. Xiao Zhao's wound had reopened; the blood seeping from under the bandage looked black in the moonlight, trickling down his arm and dripping silently onto the withered leaves. Three days ago, when the bullet grazed him, he thought it was just a superficial wound. Now the wound was swollen, the surrounding skin was burning hot, and Xiao Zhao's face was as white as paper.

"Captain..." Xiao Zhao's voice was weak.

Yang Xiaobing didn't let him speak. After tucking the dagger back into his waistband, he took out the last piece of dry rations from his pocket, broke it in half, put one half into Xiao Zhao's mouth, and handed the other half to Lao Lu. Lao Lu shook his head and didn't take it. Yang Xiaobing put the dry rations into his own mouth, chewed them a couple of times, and swallowed. They were hard and hurt his throat, but he had to eat them. If he didn't eat, he wouldn't have the strength, and without strength, he couldn't get out.

They had been lurking in this forest for three days. Three days earlier, they had evacuated from Kengtung, only to be caught by a Burmese army patrol as soon as they left the town. Xiao Zhao was running at the very back; a bullet grazed his arm. He groaned, but didn't stop, continuing to run. Blood dripped down their path, and Yang Xiaobing, seeing the black dots behind them, felt a sinking feeling in his heart. The patrol had dogs, and the dogs, drawn by the scent of blood, gave chase.

They shook off their pursuers, but not the dogs. The barking continued behind them, neither too close nor too far, like a death knell. Yang Xiaobing led them into the thicket, where they lay down in the mud, covering themselves with leaves. The barking circled around several times, then faded away, then closer again, then further away again. By daybreak, it had completely fallen silent.

But Xiao Zhao's wound became infected.

"Captain, you guys should go." Xiao Zhao leaned against a tree, his voice soft but every word clear. "I can't walk anymore. If you take me with you, no one will get out."

Yang Xiaobing ignored him. He tore open Xiao Zhao's sleeve; the skin around the wound was red and swollen, burning hot to the touch. He took out the last bit of sulfanilamide powder from the first-aid kit, sprinkled it on the wound, and re-bandaged it tightly. Xiao Zhao gritted his teeth, remaining silent, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.

Old Lu peered out through a gap in the bushes. Dawn was approaching; the east was tinged with the pale light of day, but the woods were still dark. He ducked back in and lowered his voice.

"Captain, it'll be even harder to cross after daybreak. There's a gap of less than ten minutes when the patrol changes shifts. If you want to cross, now's the time."

Yang Xiaobing glanced at his watch. 4:03 AM. He calculated that it was less than two kilometers as the crow flies from here to the border. But he had to cross that patrol road, which was narrow, with tall grass on both sides offering no cover. It would take three minutes to run there, and the probability of being spotted in three minutes…

"Walk."

He pulled Xiao Zhao up from the ground. Xiao Zhao, unsteady on his feet, swayed and leaned on his shoulder. Old Lu walked ahead, gripping his gun, muzzle down, index finger on the trigger guard. The three men emerged from the bushes and crawled forward, close to the ground. The dry leaves rustled beneath them; every step felt like a desperate struggle against fate.

Old Lu climbed to the side of the patrol route, stopped, and poked half his head out. China was right across from him. A crooked tree stood there, with words carved on its trunk, but he couldn't make out what they said. Beyond the tree was the border patrol route; he could walk it with his eyes closed and find his way back.

Footsteps.

Old Lu jerked back, pressing himself against the ground, motionless. A flashlight beam swept across from the left, its bright beam flashing a few times over the grass before returning to its source. Someone was speaking, in Burmese, which he couldn't understand, but the tone was relaxed, like they were chatting.

Yang Xiaobing held his breath. Xiao Zhao lay beside him, blood dripping from his arm into the dirt, spreading into a small dark patch. Yang Xiaobing pressed his hand against the wound, holding it down to stop the bleeding. Blood seeped from between his fingers, sticky and warm.

The footsteps faded into the distance. The flashlight beam also faded into the distance.

"Walk."

Yang Xiaobing pulled Xiao Zhao across the road. Old Lu followed behind, his gun pointed back, looking back as he ran. When they reached the crooked tree, Yang Xiaobing put Xiao Zhao down by the roots, turned around, and shouted to Old Lu.

"quick!"

Old Lu ran over, a shout coming from behind him. It was Burmese; this time it wasn't a chat, it was an order. A gunshot rang out, bullets flying overhead, hitting tree trunks with a thud, splinters flying onto his face, stinging him.

Yang Xiaobing lay prone on the ground, rested his gun on a tree root, and fired a short burst behind him. The gunshot was loud in the night, making everyone's ears ring. Someone shouted from the opposite side, and footsteps became disordered. Without checking whether he had hit the target, he got up, grabbed Xiao Zhao, and continued running.

After crossing a small hill, the ground beneath his feet changed. It was no longer soft fallen leaves, but hard, solid soil. Gunshots could still be heard behind him, but they were distant. Yang Xiaobing stopped, panting heavily, and squatted down.

Old Lu followed and lay down next to him, his gun still pointed behind them.

"Captain, we're here."

Yang Xiaobing didn't speak. He lay on the ground, looking at the sky above. The east was beginning to lighten, a hazy gray, the stars hadn't completely faded yet. He closed his eyes, rested for a few seconds, then got up and pulled Xiao Zhao up from the ground.

"Let's go. We still have a long way to go."

They walked for another two days in the woods. Xiao Zhao was burning with fever and staggered as he walked; Yang Xiaobing supported him, and they moved slowly, one step at a time. Old Lu led the way, clearing vines with a machete. When hungry, they ate dry rations; when thirsty, they drank from the stream. On the evening of the third day, they saw the border regiment's barracks.

The barracks were small, a few rows of brick houses with asbestos-covered roofs. A sentry, rifle at the ready, saw them emerge from the woods, paused for a moment, then shouted inside. The medic ran out, helped Xiao Zhao onto the bed, cut open his sleeve, saw the wound, and frowned.

"It's infected. If it had been another day, I wouldn't have been able to save this arm."

Yang Xiaobing stood to the side, watching the medic clean the wound with iodine. Xiao Zhao bit his pillow, remaining silent. He turned his face to the side, leaned against the wall, and slowly slid down to sit on the floor. Old Lu handed him a bowl of water, which he took, drank in one gulp, and returned the bowl to Old Lu without saying a word.

From the border defense regiment to Kunming, and from Kunming to Beijing, the train journey took three days and three nights. Yang Xiaobing leaned against the window, watching the fields recede into the distance. Old Lu was asleep opposite him, snoring. Xiao Zhao lay on his bunk, his arm wrapped in a white bandage; his face was still pale, but the fever had subsided.

When the train arrived in Beijing, it was still dark. The platform lights were still on, casting long, yellow shadows on the people carrying large and small bags. Yang Xiaobing jumped off the train, his legs went weak, and he steadied himself by holding onto the carriage. He was wearing a gray cloth jacket with torn cuffs, his trousers covered in mud, and his face still had scabs of blood on it.

He Yuzhu waited in his office. The tea on the table had gone cold, but he didn't refill it. Footsteps echoed in the corridor, not his usual steady gait, but dragging, weary, and hesitant. He stood up and walked to the door.

Yang Xiaobing pushed open the door and came in. Three months had passed; he had lost weight, his cheekbones were prominent, his eyes were sunken, and the mosquito bites on his face hadn't healed, leaving patches of black and red. He pulled the notebook from his pocket and slammed it on the table. The movement wasn't forceful, but the notebook landed on the table with a loud thud in the quiet office.

"Commander, he went to Taiwan."

He Yuzhu picked up the notebook and turned to the last page. Several lines were written in pencil, the handwriting messy, but each character was written with force, the back of the paper bulging. Mr. Lin, a Chinese businessman in Yangon, said that Chen Zhiyuan and Pu Zheng had discussed Taiwan in the hotel. Mr. Wu, a driver in Taunggyi, said they had inquired about flights to Taipei. Yang Xiaobing wrote on the last line of the notebook: Kengtung border, failed to catch up.

He Yuzhu closed his notebook and placed it on the table. He looked at the mosquito bites on Yang Xiaobing's face, at his gaunt appearance, and at the ripped cuffs of his blouse.

"Where's Xiao Zhao?"

Yang Xiaobing said, "He was taken to the hospital. His arm was saved, but he'll need to recover for a while."

He Yuzhu nodded. "Go back and rest. Don't come over for the next few days."

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

"Commander, we can't reach Taiwan."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. Yang Xiaobing left, and the sound of his footsteps in the corridor grew fainter and fainter until it stopped.

He Yuzhu stood by the window, looking at the sky outside. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting a pale gold glow on the courtyard wall, making the gray paint shimmer. He drew the curtains, walked back to the table, and took the list out of the drawer. Turning to the page for "Pu Zheng," after the words "Yangon, Myanmar," he added a line: Yang Xiaobing brought back intelligence; Pu Zheng has gone to Taiwan. His contact, Chen Zhiyuan, accompanied him.

He picked up the phone and dialed Lao Sun's number.

"Old He?" Old Sun's voice was sleepy.

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "Pu Zheng went to Taiwan. Get the people there moving to find out who he met, where he stayed, and who he contacted."

Old Sun was silent for a few seconds. "That's not our territory. We can't reach it."

He Yuzhu put down the phone. He stood by the window, looking at the moon outside. The moon was bright, shining on the courtyard wall. He watched for a while, then drew the curtains.