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

The smoke from the gunpowder in the tunnel had not yet dissipated.

He Yuzhu squatted in front of the AN/GRC-9, his fingers pressing against the casing. The metal was cold, and the power light was still on—a dark red, like an eye that hadn't closed. The screen was shattered into a spiderweb pattern, but not a single cable on the back of the chassis was broken, connected to a black metal box with the foreign code printed on it: AN/GRA-71.

He couldn't recognize all of them, but he knew that the thing was called an encryption device.

"Deputy Division Commander."

Yang Xiaobing emerged from around the corner, holding a flag. It was made of crimson silk, with a tiger's head embroidered in gold thread, baring its teeth. The flagpole was made of wood, with peeling paint in several places, stained with mud and blood.

"It's hanging on the wall of the operations room." He handed over the flag. "From the White Tiger Regiment?"

He Yuzhu took it, rolled it up twice, and stuffed it into the map tube.

"Keep this safe and hand it over after the war."

Yang Xiaobing responded, then stopped as he turned around: "There's another survivor over there, wearing an American military uniform. Battalion Commander Chen has him under control."

He Yuzhu stood up. His left leg wound twitched, but he didn't say anything and followed them inside.

At the entrance to the communications room at the deepest part of the tunnel, Chen Dashan was guarding it with two soldiers. When he saw He Yuzhu approaching, he threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it out.

"They're very stubborn. Our English isn't good enough to get anything out of them."

He Yuzhu pushed the door open and went in.

The U.S. military advisor was still sitting in the chair next to the metal cabinet, his hands tied behind his back. His gold-rimmed glasses were askew on one side of his nose, but hadn't fallen off. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving rapidly.

He Yuzhu pulled over another chair and sat down.

"Name."

The consultant looked up. He was in his early thirties, with brown hair and blue eyes, and a fresh abrasion on his forehead, the blood still slightly damp. His lips moved, but he didn't make a sound.

He Yuzhu gestured with his chin toward the radio station behind him.

"The frequency table hasn't been formatted yet, has it?"

The consultant's Adam's apple bobbed.

He Yuzhu stared into his eyes, neither urging nor asking.

After a silence of seven or eight seconds, the consultant looked away.

"James H. Parker," he began, his voice hoarse, "Eighth Army, Communications Staff Officer."

He Yuzhu nodded, stood up, and walked towards the door. He stopped at the door, turned around, and said in English, "Lieutenant Parker, cooperate, and we'll be able to have a hot meal before the battle is over."

After leaving the communications room, Chen Dashan came over.

"Commander, that radio—"

"Move it exactly as it is to my shelter."

Chen Dashan was stunned for a moment: "Shouldn't this be handed over to the division headquarters immediately? The communication code and coordination frequency are more valuable than a battalion's worth of ammunition."

He Yuzhu looked at him but didn't explain.

"I will hand it in," he said, "not now."

Chen Dashan opened his mouth, then turned around to make arrangements for people.

He Yuzhu leaned against the tunnel wall. The wound on his left shoulder pressed against the cold stone, making him gasp in pain. He closed his eyes, a thought flashing through his mind: This set of equipment was worth it. He couldn't say exactly how much it was worth, but it was the instinct of a hunter eyeing its prey's throat.

He opened his eyes and looked at the two soldiers with guns at the door of the communications room.

Three more days.

On the afternoon of July 14th, the sun peeked through the clouds, scorching the scorched earth surrounding Erqing Cave until it steamed.

He Yuzhu crouched in the shadow of the captured American military tent, with Parker's AN/GRC-9 lying in front of him. The screen was completely shattered, and the back cover of the chassis had been pried open, revealing a dense network of wires inside, resembling a clump of colorful noodles.

He doesn't understand.

Next to him lay the items taken from Parker's briefcase: a palm-sized codebook with "COMMUNICATION INSTRUCTIONS" printed on the cover; three crumpled frequency distribution tables; half a pack of Camel cigarettes; and a photograph—Parker and a blonde woman in a floral dress, with Mount Fuji in the background.

He flipped through the codebook, but didn't recognize a single word. It wasn't English; it was the original manuscript of encrypted messages, grouped by four letters.

He closed the booklet and was about to light a cigarette when an explosion suddenly came from afar.

It wasn't artillery fire. It was a muffled thud, coming from deep within enemy territory.

He Yuzhu stood up, grabbed his binoculars, and rushed out of the tent. Five or six miles to the southeast, a plume of black smoke rose, mixed with orange-red flames. Immediately afterward, two more sounds rang out, each louder than the last.

"Ammunition depot?" Chen Dashan ran over from the side, squinting as he looked. "Our artillery can't reach that."

He Yuzhu remained silent. Through the binoculars, flames shot skyward, and shrapnel from the explosion flew dozens of meters high. He recalled the small team sent by the 203rd Division last night—twelve men, carrying explosives, who had sneaked in at midnight.

I didn't hear any gunshots.

In other words, they sneaked in, exploded, and didn't alert the sentries.

He put down the binoculars, his Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't say a word.

Chen Dashan was also watching. After a long time, he said in a low voice, "How many will be able to come back?"

He Yuzhu did not answer.

The distant firelight reflected on his face, flickering intermittently.

The sound of car engines came from outside the tent. The convoy sent by the 203rd Division to pick up supplies had arrived. Some people shouted slogans, some cursed, and there was a lot of noise.

He Yuzhu lifted the curtain and went out.

Under the sunlight, soldiers from the special forces battalion were loading supplies onto trucks: gasoline drums, ammunition boxes, captured rifles, and bundles of American raincoats. Two men carried the White Tiger Regiment flag—rolled up and wrapped in tarpaulin—and tossed it into a corner of the truck bed.

In the distance, two soldiers carried a stretcher. Their faces were covered with white cloths, with only half of their shoes showing beneath. A person followed beside the stretcher, head bowed, their identity obscured.

He Yuzhu recognized the direction—one of the two soldiers who had fallen during the enemy reconnaissance plane's strafing yesterday. He couldn't recall their names for a moment. He only remembered that when the kid first joined the Second Battalion, he excitedly circled the captured American jeep three times upon seeing it for the first time, earning a scolding from his squad leader.

Chen Dashan saw it too.

He was silent for a moment, then said in a low voice, "Eleven were sacrificed, and twenty-nine were wounded."

He Yuzhu did not respond.

"Commander," Chen Dashan's voice was strained, "a third of our special forces battalion is gone."

He Yuzhu stood at the tent entrance. Sunlight shone on him, casting a long shadow. He watched as the truck carrying the stretcher started up in the distance, rumbling northward and kicking up a cloud of yellow dust.

"Where's the list?" he asked.

Chen Dashan took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over.

He Yuzhu took it, glanced at it, folded it up, and stuffed it into his breast pocket. He kept it close to his body.

Dusk on July 14.

He Yuzhu returned to his shelter—a semi-basement structure with a log ceiling covered by a tarpaulin. A cot stood against the wall, several maps piled on the headboard. In the corner sat the captured radio, its screen shattered and its casing open.

He sat on the edge of the bed, took out the list, and looked at it again.

Eleven names. He could recall the full names of three, only the surnames of five, and three—he stared at those three names for a long time, unable to remember what they looked like.

He folded the list and stuffed it back into his breast pocket. Then he picked up the codebook and opened it.

I still don't understand.

He put the booklet down, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.

Several images flashed through my mind: the way Parker's Adam's apple bobbed; the black smoke rising from the direction of the ammunition depot; the soldier with his head bowed beside the stretcher; the half-shoe sole peeking out from under the white sheet.

He opened his eyes, picked up the codebook, and held it up to the lamp, turning the pages one by one.

He couldn't recognize a single word. But he knew that the information recorded here could save many lives. Maybe ten, maybe fifty, maybe a hundred.

He turned to the last page and stopped.

A line of small English text was written in pencil at the bottom of the page. He recognized one of the words—"change." Next to it was the date: July 11.

three days ago.

In other words, this password may expire in three days. The new one hasn't been issued yet.

He Yuzhu stared at that line of text for a long time. Then he closed the booklet, stood up, and walked out.

Chen Dashan was checking supplies outside the tent when he saw him come out and asked, "Commander, where are you going?"

"Find Parker."

"Now?"

He Yuzhu did not answer and walked straight towards the direction where the prisoners were being held.

After walking a dozen steps, he stopped and turned back.

"Tomorrow morning," he said, "deliver that radio and the codebook to the division headquarters."

Chen Dashan was stunned: "Didn't you say—"

"First thing tomorrow morning," He Yuzhu interrupted him, "send someone to escort it and personally deliver it to the communications department. Tell them it was me who said this; this document is very time-sensitive, and have them organize people to translate it immediately."

Chen Dashan stood at attention: "Yes, sir."

He Yuzhu turned around and continued walking towards the detention area.

As darkness fell, flickering lights could still be seen deep within enemy territory in the distance; they hadn't been completely extinguished.

As he walked, he thought: Three days. Would three days be enough to get something out of Parker?

It might not be enough.

But how will you know if you don't try?