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

The battle is over, people are still alive, and the mess still needs to be cleaned up.

The sounds of shovels striking stones and logs creaking echoed day and night on the position, like a swarm of weary worker ants mending a broken nest. The smell of gunpowder had faded somewhat, but other odors had mixed in—the sweet, fermented smell of blood in the sun, the pungent residue left by disinfectant on wounds, and the lingering smell of sweat from dozens of people crammed into the trench.

Qin Huairu did not leave.

Other reporters moved with the division headquarters or went to more "lively" areas to find material. She remained at the reconnaissance battalion's position, which had just been ravaged by bloodshed. She handed bandages to the medics, poured water for the lightly wounded, and squatted in a corner watching several veterans silently wipe the empty magazines of their machine guns—their fingers repeatedly rubbing the white marks left by shrapnel on the gun bodies, as if touching some kind of mark of life.

She didn't take many photos; most of the time she just looked and listened. Occasionally she would jot down a few words in her notebook or sketch a few lines: the silhouette of a soldier dozing against the trench wall, a pair of straw sandals covered in mud and blood.

He Yuzhu knew she was still there.

He was busy taking inventory of available weapons, arranging night sentries, and repeatedly rehearsing with Lao Geng and the others which sections might not be able to hold out if the enemy came again. But those calm and stubborn eyes always flickered slightly at the edge of her vision. She was neither noisy nor disruptive. In fact, her quiet observation gave those around her a strange sense of comfort, a feeling of being "seen," that was more powerful than any boisterous visitation party.

That afternoon, I finally got a chance to catch my breath.

As the sun began to set, it cast long shadows across the scorched earth and shell craters. He Yuzhu finished inspecting the newly reinforced machine gun nests and walked alone to a sheltered earthen slope behind the position. It was some distance from the front lines and relatively quiet. From there, he could see the winding mountain ridges in the distance, and further still, the plains shrouded in twilight.

He had just pulled out his crumpled cigarette case when he heard light, steady footsteps behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was—the female reporter walked very quietly, yet always with an air of clear purpose.

"Battalion Commander He."

Qin Huairu's voice rang out from not far away.

He Yuzhu hummed in response, a cigarette dangling from his lips but not lit, his gaze fixed on the distance. Qin Huairu walked a few steps away from him and stopped, also looking in the same direction. A silence fell between them, broken only by the rustling of the wind through the grass.

"The battle is over," Qin Huairu spoke first, her tone calm. "You held your ground. What's next?"

"What's next?" He Yuzhu took off his cigarette and twirled it between his fingers. "Build fortifications, wait for supplies, and prepare for when the enemy might come again. What else can we do?"

"You always seem to know how they're coming." Qin Huairu turned her head to look at his profile, roughened by gunpowder and dust. "Last time it was sniping, this time it's artillery cover for infantry and tanks. You've arranged everything in advance. Is it experience, or... something else?"

He Yuzhu felt a slight tension in his heart. He turned his head to meet her gaze—those eyes were clear, without any probing, only pure curiosity and a desire to understand.

"After fighting so many battles, some things become habits," he said slowly, trying to keep his voice calm. "They have strong firepower, so they like to plow the ground with artillery first, thinking they've stunned the enemy before coming up to pick off the rest. This is their strength, but also their weakness—relying too much on this tactic can easily become an inflexible rule. We are outnumbered and poorly equipped, so we can't just fight head-on; we have to find loopholes. Let them think we've bombed the ground, but actually we're hiding; when they come up and think we're safe, we suddenly appear and catch them off guard. To put it bluntly, it's about using our strengths to attack their weaknesses. It's something from our ancestors' military strategies."

He spoke simply, even a little roughly. Qin Huairu listened intently, a thoughtful glint in his eyes.

"Use our strengths to attack their weaknesses..." she repeated, "But where are our 'strengths'? Besides... not being afraid to die?"

He Yuzhu remained silent for a moment. "Not afraid of death? That's too harsh a statement. Who isn't afraid of death? It's just that sometimes, there's no choice."

"Our strength lies in the fact that we're the ones backed into a corner." His voice lowered. "With no way to retreat, we dare to take risks and break the rules. The enemy, on the other hand, is there to complete their missions and achieve certain strategic goals. They calculate casualties and ammunition consumption. We... often only calculate how to prevent those behind us from suffering. Different starting points lead to different tactics."

This went too far, going beyond a simple tactical discussion. He Yuzhu regretted it as soon as he finished speaking, feeling he had said too much. But Qin Huairu didn't press him, just listened quietly, something settling in her eyes.

"Do you hate them?" she suddenly asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Hatred? He Yuzhu paused for a moment. He rarely thought about this question. On the battlefield, the opposite side is the enemy; firing or being fired is simple. Hatred is too energy-consuming an emotion; he couldn't afford it.

"I wouldn't call it hatred." He shook his head, looking at the faint outline of enemy fortifications on the opposite hilltop. "On the battlefield, everyone serves their own side. Some of their soldiers might just be ordinary people sent up here. But I have to fight them, fight them hard. Only when I hurt them, when I scare them, when I let them know they can't gain any advantage, will they stop. Then the people behind them... might finally have some peace."

He spoke calmly, even somewhat coldly. But Qin Huairu sensed the weighty message within him—he wasn't fighting for hatred, but for ending the war. This realization made the image of the excessively young yet frighteningly experienced battalion commander before him even more complex.

"Your family..." Qin Huairu hesitated for a moment before asking anyway. She had seen his brief information and knew that he was a student soldier who had "abandoned his studies to join the army," but more information seemed to have been intentionally or unintentionally obscured.

He Yuzhu's body stiffened almost imperceptibly. He looked further north—towards his homeland, the vague hometown in the original owner's memories.

"My hometown is in the north. It's gone from many years ago." He spoke softly, as if afraid of disturbing something. "In war, shells don't have eyes."

He didn't specify how they died, but Qin Huairu understood. The war had destroyed far more than just his family. She suddenly thought of the young soldiers in the medical ward, crying for their mothers while unconscious, and of the young faces forever left in Vulture Valley and the battles of the past few days.

Silence fell between them again. The setting sun cast long shadows that intertwined among the rocks and weeds on the hillside.

"I want to write something," Qin Huairu suddenly said, her voice firm yet carrying a barely perceptible earnestness. "Not the kind of triumphant reports, nor simple hero stories. I want to write about real war—about how it molds people into this state," she pointed to He Yuzhu, then to the distant battlefield, "about its cruelty, its helplessness, and... in all of this, that indomitable spirit in people like you."

He Yuzhu turned his head and looked at her intently. This time, there was no wariness or resistance in his eyes, only deep weariness and perhaps a hint of understanding.

"Reporter Qin," he said, his voice hoarse, "if you really want to write something real, don't just write about how we won battles and how we defended our positions."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the land beneath his feet where more than twenty of his brothers had just been buried.

"Also write about the sacrifices. Write about those who charged in and never came back—what were their names, where were their homes, and who might be waiting for them to return? Write about these shell craters, what might be buried beneath every inch of them. Write about how we dug out the mutilated remains of our comrades while repairing the fortifications, hastily buried them, without even having time to cry."

His tone was flat, as if he were talking about something very ordinary, but every word felt like a stone hitting Qin Huairu's heart.

"Victory is temporary, but casualties are permanent. Those who can't go back are the ones who should be remembered most in this war. Without them, all victories are meaningless."

As Qin Huairu listened, her nose stung, yet a burning sensation surged in her chest. She nodded vigorously, saying nothing—words seemed inadequate at that moment.

After He Yuzhu finished speaking, he seemed to have shed a burden. He put the cigarette back in his mouth, this time took out a match, struck it, and cupped the flame in his palm to hold it to the cigarette butt. The orange flame danced on his face for a moment, illuminating his tightly pursed lips and the deep shadows hidden in his eyes.

He lit the cigarette. He took a drag, slowly exhaling the bluish-gray smoke, watching it dissipate in the evening breeze.

"Write it down," he said finally, his voice carried on the wind, "use your pen to remember for them."

Qin Huairu stood beside him, watching the sunset completely sink behind the distant mountains. The sky changed from orange-red to deep blue, and the first star timidly lit up. She didn't take out her notebook, but instead, she carefully engraved every word He Yuzhu had said into her heart.

On the front lines, the clanging of fortifications still echoed, occasionally punctuated by the changing of the guard command. The war continued. But on this hillside, two young people from different worlds, bearing different missions, forged a silent yet profound understanding through a conversation about reality and memory.