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

The rain was so heavy that it was impossible to tell which rain was falling from the sky and which was dripping from the leaves.

He Yuzhu leaned against the crooked pine tree, rainwater seeping into his collar, leaving his chest and back completely soaked. He pulled the waterproof map from his pocket and, using the dim light in the rain, redrawn a line at the location of Erqing Cave with his fingernail—four hundred meters east. Only after drawing did he realize his fingernail had split, and a drop of blood seeped into the edge of the paper, forming a dark red dot.

He didn't wipe it.

The cold rain aggravated the old injury on his left leg, causing a dull saw to pull back and forth deep inside the wound. He shifted his weight to his right foot, and a tendon behind his knee twitched. He gritted his teeth and didn't make a sound.

There were more than two hundred people in the dense forest, and no one made a sound.

The rustling of soaking wet clothes, the barely suppressed breathing, the occasional gentle shift of a numb leg—all these sounds were swallowed by the rain. The sound of the rain pounding on the leaves and stones was so dense, it was like God sifting sand. He'd been sifting for three hours, and he still wasn't done.

He Yuzhu took out his pocket watch but didn't dare open it. He traced the patterns on the watch face with his fingers to calculate the time.

There are three hours left before the final assault.

It was pitch black. But the rain showed no sign of stopping. This rain was just right—it kept the enemy huddled in their bunkers, and the beams of their searchlights were scattered and fragmented by the rain, barely illuminating more than ten meters.

He put the pocket watch back in and his fingers touched his left breast pocket.

That letter.

The edges of the envelope were worn, and Qin Huairu's handwriting had faded slightly, still bearing the same postmark as last month. He didn't open it; he tucked it into his pocket and never took it out again. Now, through his soaked military uniform, the envelope felt soft and limp against his chest, digging into his pounding heart.

He Yuzhu pressed the letter further inside without looking down.

"Deputy Division Commander."

The voice was extremely low, coming from behind his right ear. He Yuzhu turned his head; it was Yang, the disguised reconnaissance squad leader from the 607th Regiment, codenamed Xiao Bing—he hadn't actually asked for his real name. For this kind of job, knowing the codename was enough.

Yang Xiaobing shuffled forward half a foot, and raindrops dripped from the brim of his hat, landing right on the folded corner of the waterproof map paper.

"Does this count as us stealing work from the 607th Regiment?"

He Yuzhu tucked the map even deeper into his clothes, and the finger with the split nail scraped against the oiled paper, hissing in pain.

"Calculate."

He paused, his voice even lower than the sound of rain: "But with the war at this point, whoever grabs it gets to keep it."

Yang Xiaobing remained silent. After a few seconds, he chuckled softly, revealing half of his white teeth.

"Alright. If the regimental commander starts yelling at people, you take the lead."

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He stared at the blurry blackness deep in the rain—that was the direction of Erqing Cave, less than seven kilometers away as the crow flies. He had gone over the contour map in his mind more than twenty times; he could tell with his eyes closed which ditch could hide a person, which road had mines, and which bridge piers were made of wood.

What's missing now is the final salvo of the all-out attack.

At 9:55, the scouts who had gone ahead returned.

They didn't walk back—they dragged someone along, crawling and shuffling back. The prisoner had a rag stuffed in his mouth, his hands were tied behind his back, and his knees were scraped raw from the stones, making him gasp for breath. Old Lu, the scout, had half his sleeve covered in mud, and his uniform on his right shoulder was torn, with blood mingling with the rainwater.

"We ran into a patrol officer and got into a fight." Old Lu threw the prisoner to the ground, panting like a broken bellows. "This guy's lucky. If he'd been two inches off, he would have been dead."

He Yuzhu dragged the man behind a boulder sheltered from the rain, pulled a dagger from his boot, and used the tip of the blade to cut open the tattered cloth.

The prisoner coughed violently, and after the first cough, he bit his lip hard and swallowed the second one back.

Yang Xiaobing squatted down, speaking fluent Korean as if he'd been talking since childhood. The prisoner initially remained defiant, his jaw clenched tightly, his eyes darting around. Yang Xiaobing didn't use his knife or gun—he simply sighed and took the family photo from the prisoner's belt.

His wife, two children, and elderly mother were all huddled together, laughing, against the backdrop of Seoul's gloomy sky.

He turned the photo face up to the prisoner and didn't say a word.

The prisoner stared at the photo for five seconds.

Then his shoulders slumped, and his whole body felt like it had been drained of its muscle.

He gave his instructions quickly. The White Tiger Regiment's surface positions were still intact, but the regimental headquarters had retreated to the second-line tunnels, located 400 meters east of the location indicated in the intelligence report. The US military advisory group consisted of seven people who arrived yesterday afternoon. The leader was a lieutenant colonel named Keating, who wore gold-rimmed glasses.

There's another piece of news—

Commander Choi Chang-ju of the Capital Division may come tonight for an operational meeting. The time is uncertain, but he is already on his way.

After hearing this, He Yuzhu put the dagger back into his boot.

"map."

Yang Xiaobing unfolded the waterproof paper. He Yuzhu used his finger with the split nail to make a scratch on the new location of the White Tiger Regiment headquarters. Blood seeped out again, but he ignored it.

According to the originally specified firing data, at least twenty shells were expected to land on the open ground.

He looked up at the rainy night.

"I'm not waiting anymore."

Yang Xiaobing paused for half a second: "Not waiting for the cannon?"

"No time to wait." He Yuzhu's voice wasn't loud, but every word was firm. "Cui Changzhou won't stay in the tunnel until dawn. If we go now, he'll be there. By the time the final artillery barrage sounds, he'll have escaped."

Old Lu slammed his submachine gun on the ground, rain dripping from the muzzle: "Deputy Division Commander, without artillery cover, two hundred men going through three layers of barbed wire is risking their lives."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

He folded the map, tucked it into his pocket, and his fingers touched the letter again. The edges of the envelope were soaked with sweat, and it lay limp against his palm. He didn't open it, nor did he take it out; he just pressed it against his hand.

"Go set up the radio."

The radio station was set up behind that huge, sheltered rock.

Old Lu stretched the antenna to its longest length, cranking the generator until his hands ached. The red light was on, but the green light wasn't.

"No, the signal is too weak."

Yang Xiaobing also plugged in his walkie-talkie, but it didn't work either. The torrential rain had completely disrupted the radio waves—not only could they not reach the West Group command post twenty kilometers away, but they couldn't even reach the Second Battalion, which was just two hilltops away.

Old Lu wiped the water from his face, his voice tense: "Deputy Division Commander, how about... we wait another half hour? The rain might let up—"

"I can't wait."

He Yuzhu reached into the rain, scooped up a handful of water, and rubbed his face. He pulled a radio from the innermost layer of his backpack—a PRC-6, a US military-grade device with a rubber casing. It had been captured by the 607th Regiment last month; Yang Xiaobing had tested it and confirmed it was usable, and it had been reported as war booty.

He pressed the call button and raised the antenna above his head.

"Thunder, I am Lone Pine."

"Thunder, I am Lone Pine."

The crackling of electricity mingled with the sound of rain pelting the leaves. One second, two seconds, three seconds.

"Lone Pine, Thunder received."

The voice on the other end was broken by the rain, but it was clear—it was the duty officer of the Western Group Artillery Command Post.

He Yuzhu's throat tightened, and he swallowed.

"Thunder, target 2 Qingdong, a high-value target has been temporarily stationed there. Requesting extended artillery fire for 20 minutes. Coordinates—"

After reciting the corrected number, he released the call button.

The static lasted for another five seconds.

"Lone Pine, coordinates received. Extending by twenty minutes requires approval from forward command. Can your unit ensure the target doesn't move prematurely?"

He Yuzhu glanced at the blurry black mass in the depths of the rainy night.

"able."

He tucked the radio into his coat pocket and pressed his left hand against his left leg. The old wound throbbed dully in the rain; he suppressed the pain and turned away.

Behind him were more than two hundred faces soaked by the rain.

"The artillery fire will arrive in fifteen minutes." His voice wasn't loud, but everyone heard him clearly. "Now—"

He pulled out the signal pistol and loaded three red signal flares into the magazine.

"Check equipment. In five minutes, advance to the first barbed wire fence."

No one spoke.

Old Lu bent down to check the submachine gun magazine, while Yang Xiaobing tied his dagger back to his calf. Some of the others reached for grenades, some tightened their shoelaces, and some removed and reattached their bayonets. The movements of more than two hundred people blended into a soft rustling sound, like rain falling on grass.

He Yuzhu leaned back against the tree trunk and pressed his left hand against his left breast pocket.

The letter is still there, pressed against my heart, pressing against my heartbeat.

He didn't take it apart, nor did he touch it again.

21 o'clock.

The earth trembled.

It wasn't just shaking—it was as if his whole body was lifted up from the soles of his feet. He Yuzhu clung to the tree trunk and saw the southern sky change from dark red to orange-red, and then explode from orange-red into a white expanse of fire.

1483 cannons roared simultaneously.

The sound of rain was torn to shreds. The mountains swayed, the ground sank, and the searchlights on the enemy's positions opposite them went out one by one, like dogs that had been hit with sticks.

The exhaust plumes of the Katyusha rockets turned half the sky into dusk, and the shells flew overhead, leaving fiery red trails, as dense as migratory birds. The explosions were no longer isolated bursts.

It's in patches.

Like a glacier cracking open.

It's like an entire cliff falling from the mountaintop into a deep valley.

He Yuzhu leaned against the tree trunk to stand up. His left leg felt like it had been shot again; the tendon behind his knee twitched. He shifted his weight to his right foot and didn't look down. Old Lu lent him a hand from behind, but he didn't accept it.

He raised the signal gun, pointing it towards Erqingdong.

Pull the trigger.

Three red signal flares, trailing long, thin flames, pierced through the rain, through the smoke and dust kicked up by the explosions, and through the night sky tinged dark red by the artillery fire.

Like three drops of blood in slow motion.

He heard Old Lu growl behind him: "First Battalion, advance!"

Hearing Yang Xiaobing shout in a low voice, "Makeup team, follow me!"

I heard the splashing of over two hundred pairs of feet sinking into the mud, the rustling of raincoats scraping against the bushes. I heard someone softly say—

"Deputy Division Commander, the artillery fire has been extended."

He Yuzhu tucked the empty signal gun back into his waistband.

Take the first step.

The second step.

third step.

He didn't turn around.

The letter pressed against my chest, through my soaked uniform, throbbed with my heartbeat. The rain continued to fall, the cannons continued to roar.

He didn't turn around.