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

The regimental headquarters had just set up its operations, and the defensive line was filled with the clanging and banging of digging, the air thick with the smell of fresh soil and wood shavings. The scene looked bustling with activity, but He Yuzhu knew perfectly well that beneath this bustling activity lay the tension of new recruits, the squabbles caused by the chaotic organization, and the scarcity of tools and materials for building fortifications. Not to mention, overhead, enemy reconnaissance planes were flying overhead more and more frequently each day, like flies that couldn't be driven away, a constant reminder: the enemy wasn't asleep.

That afternoon, he left behind a pile of documents waiting to be signed, and listened to several battalion commanders arguing for a long time about manpower allocation. Finally, he got up and called his guard: "Let's go take a look at the rear hospital."

Old Geng looked up from the pile of documents, somewhat surprised: "Go now? It's a mess over there. Didn't the division commander say that an inspection team might come to inspect the new defense line in the next few days..."

"The progress of the defense line can't be reported with just words." He Yuzhu fastened his top button. "Those lying in the hospital are the most real progress bar. I won't feel at ease if I don't go and see for myself."

The hospital was set up in a valley sheltered from artillery fire, cobbled together from a few tattered tents and semi-underground shacks. It wasn't far from the front lines; the sounds of artillery fire could be faintly heard. And then there was that stench—it hit you from dozens of meters away: the stench of blood, the pungent smell of disinfectant, the acrid odor of festering wounds, and the rancid smell of excrement, all mixed together, weighing heavily on your chest.

As He Yuzhu approached, he saw a person squatting at the tent entrance. It was Qin Huairu. She was talking to a young soldier whose arm was wrapped in bandages and in a sling, her face turned to the side, her expression focused, occasionally jotting down notes in a small notebook. Sunlight filtered through the tent cracks, illuminating her dusty face, making her look softer than on the battlefield, but the stubborn seriousness in her eyes was still there.

The young soldier saw He Yuzhu first, paused for a moment, and struggled to stand up. He Yuzhu waved his hand and walked over.

Qin Huairu raised her head, a hint of surprise flashing in her eyes, before regaining her composure and nodding to him: "Commander He."

The form of address has changed. The tone has lost its previous tentativeness and gained a more businesslike familiarity.

"Reporter Qin," He Yuzhu responded, his gaze falling on the young soldier's pale face. "How are your injuries?"

"Reporting to the commander! The bullet went right through, but didn't hit any bones!" The voice was weak, but the back was straight.

"Okay, take good care of yourself." He Yuzhu didn't say much, but gently patted his uninjured shoulder.

Qin Huairu closed her notebook and stood up: "I was just about to go in and take a look. Commander He, would you like to come along?"

The two men entered the large tent serving as a ward, one after the other. The light was dim, and a thin layer of straw covered the ground, where wounded soldiers lay side-by-side. Groans, suppressed coughs, and the hurried footsteps of the medics mingled together. The air was so thick it was hard to breathe.

He Yuzhu walked slowly. His gaze swept over the faces of the wounded, some young, some weathered, all etched with pain. Some of the wounded recognized him and whispered "Commander," to which he nodded; most simply stared blankly at the ceiling or closed their eyes, enduring the pain.

He saw a medic changing the dressing of a wounded soldier with boiled gauze. The wound on the soldier's thigh was gruesome and gaping, its color off. The medic held only a thin layer of powder left in his hand, trembling carefully.

Deep inside the tent, on a straw mat in a corner lay an unusually young soldier—probably not even eighteen years old, his face deathly pale, his eyes tightly shut. His left leg, from the knee down, was wrapped in thick bandages, stained a dark yellow by seeping fluid. An older medic was examining him, his brow furrowed in deep frown.

He Yuzhu stopped.

The military doctor looked up and saw him, sighed, and lowered his voice: "It's infected, and it's out of control. This place... lacks medicine and equipment. If it drags on any longer, he'll lose his leg, and his life will be in danger."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything. He walked over to the young soldier and squatted down.

The young soldier seemed to sense someone; his eyelids fluttered a few times, and he opened them a crack. His gaze was unfocused and unfocused.

He Yuzhu reached out and grasped the young soldier's tightly clenched fist at his side. The hand was icy cold, the palm was covered in cold sweat, and it was trembling slightly. He just held it like that, without saying a word, only tightening his grip slightly.

Qin Huairu stood to the side and behind, quietly watching this scene. She didn't raise her camera, nor did she open her notebook. She simply watched He Yuzhu's back as he squatted there, watching him hold that young hand. The noisy sounds in the tent seemed to suddenly fade away, leaving only the suppressed breathing in the corner and the silence between the two.

After a while, He Yuzhu released his grip, stood up, and said to the medic, "Do everything you can to save him. Make a list of any medicines or equipment needed and send it directly to the regimental headquarters. I'll figure something out."

The military doctor paused for a moment, then nodded vigorously.

Stepping out of the tent, the air outside wasn't much fresher. Qin Huairu followed half a step behind him, walking silently for a while.

"Your soldiers," she suddenly spoke, her voice soft, "seem to trust you a lot. But they're also... a little afraid of you."

He Yuzhu didn't stop walking, his eyes fixed on the potholed road ahead: "You're right to be afraid."

Qin Huairu turned her head to look at him.

"On the battlefield, fear of discipline and fear of orders can sometimes be more effective than sheer courage in getting you out of there alive." His voice was flat, as if he were talking about something perfectly ordinary. "I'd rather they fear me and the rules I set than use their fear when the enemy is supposed to appear." He paused, then added, "However, I'd prefer they save all their fear for those guys on the other side."

Qin Huairu pondered the meaning behind those words. They weren't the kind of words a mere warrior would utter—there was a cold, heavy sense of responsibility within them.

They walked a little further, almost reaching the hospital's makeshift exit. He Yuzhu suddenly stopped, didn't turn around, and said, "I saw the article you wrote, about feeding the baby water..."

Qin Huairu was slightly taken aback.

"It's quite realistic," He Yuzhu said, then walked out without looking back.

Qin Huairu stood there, watching his figure disappear around the corner of the valley. The sunlight was a bit dazzling, and she squinted, her lips curving upwards very slightly, but the smile quickly vanished. She took out a small notebook from her pocket, turned to a brand new page, and without writing anything, simply used a pencil to lightly and repeatedly underline a few words:

Trust. Fear. Truth. Responsibility.

That evening, He Yuzhu returned to the regimental headquarters and immediately summoned the head of the logistics department. He slammed the list of urgently needed medicines and surgical instruments that he had brought back from the hospital onto the table, and added a few more items himself.

"At all costs, immediately apply to the division and army logistics departments! Tell them that we have many wounded in our defense zone, the hospital conditions are poor, which is affecting morale and the stability of the defense line! The tone must be urgent, and the situation must be described as serious!" He paused, then added, "In addition, didn't we... have some supplies that we 'stored' through special channels before? I remember some anti-inflammatory drugs and equipment; urgently allocate some of them first. Say that the division headquarters took into account our special circumstances and gave us special approval in advance."

The logistics director hesitated, "Commander, we don't have much stock ourselves, and besides..."

"Do as I say!" He Yuzhu interrupted him, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The hospital can't wait."

[Redeem: Penicillin (high-potency anti-inflammatory drug) × 1000 vials (unit dose, simple packaging), -30,000 points.]

[Redeem: Basic Surgical Instrument Set (including hemostats, scalpel, sutures, etc.) × 50 sets, -20,000 points.]

Total: -50,000 points.

Battlefield Points: 6,141,398 - 50,000 = 6,091,398 points.

A batch of ordinary-packaged but highly effective medicines and surgical instruments, mixed in with the limited supplies "specially allocated" by the division headquarters, were delivered to the field hospital overnight. He Yuzhu didn't go over to check on them. He just stood at the entrance of the regimental headquarters, gazing at the dark night sky in the direction of the hospital, for a long time.

The next day, Qin Huairu sent a message to the regimental headquarters through someone, saying only one sentence:

"The medicine and equipment have been received. The doctor said the young soldier's leg needs further observation, but there is hope."

Upon hearing this, He Yuzhu simply grunted in response and continued looking down at his defensive line construction drawings. But Old Geng, who was pouring water nearby, noticed that the commander's brows, which had been furrowed for several days, seemed to have relaxed slightly.

This encounter in the field hospital did not alter the increasingly tense situation at the front, nor did it pause the sound of picks being used to build fortifications. But like a drop of water, it seeped into some dry cracks—

For He Yuzhu, it was a concrete touch of an even greater responsibility;

For Qin Huairu, it was yet another vivid and fleshed-out footnote to the legendary character she created.

For the young soldier who might have saved his leg, and for the other wounded in the hospital, it was perhaps a faint but real glimmer of light in the darkness.