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

The day Shen Lian and the others left was a rare sunny day.

A crack appeared in the clouds, and sunlight pierced straight down, shining into the waterlogged crater at the tunnel entrance, the shimmering water blinding. As the three jeeps started, the roar of their engines echoed through the valley, startling several black birds in the distant woods. He Yuzhu stood at the entrance of the regimental headquarters, watching the dust kicked up by the vehicles slowly settle, and only then did he feel a slight relief from the tension he had felt for four days.

Wu Dayong crawled out of the trench, brushing the dirt off his uniform: "They're gone?"

"Um."

"Did you say anything?"

"Tell him to lead his troops well and defend the position." He Yuzhu turned and walked into the tunnel. "That's all."

Wu Dayong followed behind him, and only after entering the regimental headquarters' bunker did he lower his voice and say, "Political Commissar Zhao has inquired; the review team's report was sent out late last night. The conclusion is... no problem."

He Yuzhu sat down on the ammunition box and reached for his water bottle. His hand paused halfway—his fingertips trembled slightly. He hesitated for two seconds, then gripped the bottle tightly, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. The cool water slid down his throat, finally calming the tremor.

"Where is the division headquarters?"

"Political Commissar Wang called this morning, asking you to come over this afternoon." Wu Dayong squatted down, took out his pipe, thought for a moment, and then put it back in his pocket. "I guess it's to... give you a few instructions."

He Yuzhu nodded. The storm had passed for now. But some things, once they're firmly planted, are firmly planted, like nails driven into wood; pulling them out leaves a hole. That hole won't heal on its own; it will only slowly seep in and rot away little by little.

When I arrived at the division headquarters in the afternoon, the sky had turned overcast again. Division Commander Song wasn't in the command post; he was in the mud-brick house used as a dormitory at the back of the courtyard. Inside, there was only a kang (a heated brick bed), a table, and maps stacked on top of maps on the walls, the layers of lines covering the mud walls completely.

"Sit down." Commander Song gestured to the edge of the kang (heated brick bed), sat down in the creaky chair, took out a cigarette and lit it. "Have Shen Lian and the others talked things out with you?"

"Understood," He Yuzhu said. "The conclusion is that no related evidence was found."

Commander Song took a drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled. The bluish-gray smoke swirled in the dim light: "'Not found,' that's a brilliant word. It's neither 'there' nor 'there isn't,' it's 'didn't find it. Think about it."

He Yuzhu awaits the next installment.

"This air raid was too bizarre." Division Commander Song flicked his cigarette ash. "So bizarre that the higher-ups can't sleep at night. They've investigated and investigated, but there are only so many clues, and you just happen to be in the most conspicuous position—you were the one who issued the warning, you were the one who launched the counterattack, and you had the biggest results. Who else should they investigate if not you?"

He looked at He Yuzhu: "But after investigating, they couldn't find anything. Your resume is clean, your decisions are reasonable, and your achievements are all genuine. Even the fact that you recovered quickly... they can only attribute it to 'youth and a special constitution'."

The edge of the kang (heated brick bed) was uncomfortable. He Yuzhu adjusted his posture, and the coolness seeped through his thin military trousers from the wooden board.

"So the conclusion is now: you, He Yuzhu, are a genius, a lucky general, and a rare combat hero in the history of our army." Division Commander Song stubbed out his cigarette in the earthen bowl, a wisp of smoke rising from the black ash at the bottom. "This conclusion is the one that everyone can accept right now. You are a hero if you live; the higher-ups have given their explanation; the troops have a role model."

He paused, then lowered his voice: "But Yuzhu, once this conclusion is accepted, you can no longer be 'not' a hero. Do you understand the difference?"

He Yuzhu felt a phantom pain in his knee, as if he had actually stepped on ice, and a chill crept up his calf.

"Did Shen Lian say anything to you before he left?" Commander Song asked.

He Yuzhu recalled that yesterday evening, Shen Lian had called him out alone, and the two of them stood on the hillside for ten minutes. Shen Lian looked at the charred array in the distance and said, "Some powers should not exist, nor should they be controlled by individuals."

"Yes." Commander Song nodded. "These words are for you, and for everyone who might hear them. He's reminding you, and warning you—regardless of whether you possess that 'power' or not, from now on, you must act as if you don't. You must be wounded like an ordinary person, recover just like an ordinary person, and need luck to win battles just like an ordinary person. Understand?"

"clear."

"When you get back, keep a low profile." Division Commander Song walked over and placed his hand on his shoulder. The hand was heavy, calloused from years of holding a gun. "Fight the battle as usual, but avoid showing off and making decisions that seem too far-fetched. Building a solid unit is more important than anything else."

"Yes."

"There's one more thing." Division Commander Song took an envelope from his drawer and handed it to him. "Your girlfriend, Comrade Qin Huairu, wrote three letters to the division hospital inquiring about you. The hospital has transferred you to me according to regulations. Write her a reply to let her know you're safe, but don't say too much."

He Yuzhu took the envelope. He squeezed it with his fingers; it was quite thick. He put it in his pocket; even through the fabric, he could still feel the weight of the letter.

"Thank you, sir."

"Alright, go back." Commander Song waved his hand and sat back down in his chair. "Remember what I said. From where you're standing now, you're looking at the scenery, but below you is all ice. If you lose your footing, you'll fall and won't be able to climb back up."

On the way back to the regimental headquarters, a light drizzle began to fall. The jeep bumped along the muddy road, and the driver, Xiao Zhang, glanced at He Yuzhu several times in the rearview mirror, seemingly wanting to say something but then stopping himself.

"Speak your mind." He Yuzhu's eyes were closed, but you could feel his gaze.

"Commander, the inspection team has left. Does that mean our group is... all set?" Xiao Zhang asked cautiously.

He Yuzhu opened his eyes and looked out the car window at the rain-soaked mountains and forests. The trees were blurred into ink-wash-like shadows in the rain.

What do you think?

"I don't know." Xiao Zhang shook his head, turning the steering wheel. "I just feel...frustrated. We won a battle and made great contributions, so why are we being treated like criminals?"

"It's not about interrogating the criminals," He Yuzhu said. "It's about finding out the truth. Finding out the truth is a responsibility to everyone."

After saying that, he himself felt that his words were too mild. Xiao Zhang stopped talking and focused on driving. The windshield wipers scraped back and forth on the windshield, making a monotonous sound: left, right, left, right.

Back at the regimental headquarters, it was already dusk. Oil lamps were lit in the tunnel, their dim light casting long, swaying shadows against the tunnel walls. Political Commissar Zhao was having a meeting with several battalion commanders when He Yuzhu entered, and the meeting stopped.

"What did the division commander say?" Political Commissar Zhao asked.

"Tell him to lead the troops well and keep a low profile." He Yuzhu took off his wet coat and hung it on a nail. Water droplets dripped from the corner of his coat, spreading into a small spot on the ground. "Continue the meeting, I'm listening."

The meeting continued, discussing the rotation of defensive positions and logistical supplies. He Yuzhu sat in a corner, clutching the envelope given to him by Division Commander Song, unopened. He listened as the battalion commanders reported figures—enough food for five days, ammunition at 60% remaining, and medicine being the most scarce; painkillers and sulfonamides were almost gone.

These are the realities that are pressing on our throats and weighing on our spines. As for the censorship, warnings, and suspicions, they are like fog on a mountaintop—intimidating to look at, but they can't feed a single soldier or stop a single bullet.

As the meeting adjourned, Wu Dayong leaned over and whispered, "Commander, you haven't gone to the clinic to change your dressing today, have you?"

He Yuzhu then remembered that the bandage on his left arm needed to be changed. He followed Wu Dayong outside, and halfway there he suddenly asked, "Old Wu, do you think I'm... weird?"

Wu Dayong was taken aback, then laughed. His laughter echoed in the narrow tunnel: "What's so strange about that? A good regimental commander is one who can win battles. As for the rest, who cares?"

"What if..." He Yuzhu paused, "What if I can't win such impressive battles anymore?"

"Then let's fight the ugly ones," Wu Dayong said, his tone as casual as if he were talking about what to eat that day. "As long as the position is still there, and the brothers can still breathe, we'll fight however we want. Whether it's a good fight or an ugly one, it'll all end up in the battle report, becoming a bunch of numbers. Who remembers which battle was a good fight?"

He Yuzhu stared at him for several seconds. The lamplight flickered on Wu Dayong's face, making his wrinkles appear even deeper in the interplay of light and shadow.

"Okay, got it."

At the clinic, Dr. Kobayashi removed his bandages. The wound was healing very well; new flesh had grown, pink in color, and the edges were a little itchy. As Dr. Kobayashi applied the medicine, he said, "Commander, your recovery speed is truly... I've been a medic for so many years, and this is the first time I've seen anything like it."

He Yuzhu looked at the scars on his arm. The pink new flesh felt like a strange piece of land growing on a limb he knew so well.

"Maybe it's because I'm young," he said.

"Youth is one aspect." Kobayashi wrapped the new bandage with practiced ease. "But it's not entirely explained by youth. I reckon it's because you have an exceptionally strong will to survive. Your body knows it can't collapse, so it grows as fast as it can."

Will to survive.

He Yuzhu silently recited the words.

Yes, he wanted to live, to live with his brothers, to finish this war, and to go back to a peaceful life. This thought took root deep within him like a seed, sending out unseen roots that spread to every wound, urging them to heal.

As for the rest... he glanced at the system interface in his mind, which was gray and had a countdown of just over two days left.

Some powers should not exist, nor should they be controlled by individuals.

Shen Lian's words echoed in my ears again.

As I left the clinic, the rain was still falling, a fine, dense drizzle that shrouded the world in a hazy, misty fog. In the distance, the sentry on Hill 597.9 was blurred into a black dot in the rain, motionless, like a nail driven into the mountain ridge.

He Yuzhu stood at the entrance of the tunnel and took out the letter from his pocket. In the dim light, he tore open the seal.

The letter unfolded, revealing three pages of Qin Huairu's neat handwriting. She asked if his injuries had healed, how his meals were, and when he could take turns resting. Every word was filled with careful concern, as if afraid that writing even a single extra word would be a burden. The last line was written slightly crookedly, the ink blurred by water, round—like a tear that would never dry.

He brought the smudged ink closer to the light and examined it again and again. The thing in his chest that had been taut and hard as iron for so long suddenly softened with a sour feeling.

Back at the regimental headquarters' shelter, everyone had dispersed, leaving only an oil lamp burning on the table. He Yuzhu took out paper and pen and began replying by the dim light of the lamp. The pen tip grazed the rough paper, making a soft rustling sound, much like the pattering rain outside.

He wrote slowly, each stroke striving for steadyness and ordinariness, as if practicing a new script—a script that wouldn't evoke any extraneous associations. He wrote, "My wounds are almost healed, I'm well-fed, the battle is still going on, I'll go back when it's over." After finishing, he looked at those lines for a moment, then gently blew on the ink to dry it, and folded it up.

The oil lamp cast his enormous shadow on the tunnel wall, the shadow swaying slightly with the flame, like a silent flag that could be ruffled by the wind at any moment.

The envelope was sealed shut and placed on the table. He Yuzhu blew out the light and sat in the darkness for a while. Faint snoring came from deep within the tunnel, rising and falling, breathing, alive.

The rain is still falling. After this rain, the craters on the mountain will be filled with water again, like the earth's eyes that can never close, silently gazing up at the sky.

He touched the bandage on his left arm, his heart itching beneath the gauze. That itch was alive, it was growth, it was healing, it was what an ordinary person should feel.

This is enough.