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

The jeep bounced along the dirt road all afternoon.

The car lurched and swayed, its left leg unable to straighten, resting diagonally against the seat. The scenery outside the window changed several times—first, scorched mountain ridges, then sparse farmland, and finally, the barren, grassy slopes characteristic of the neutral zone. The sun beat down on the roof, and the air was thick with the smells of gasoline and earth, enough to make one nauseous after a while.

The driver was a young soldier in his early twenties. He didn't say a word the whole way, only occasionally glancing at him in the rearview mirror. He Yuzhu knew what he was looking at—the new bandage seeping through his left shoulder, and the old military uniform that was indistinguishable between mud and blood.

Kaicheng.

He mentally reviewed the place name. After three years of fighting, this was the first time he had ever been to this place.

The jeep stopped in front of a checkpoint. As the sentry checked identification, He Yuzhu saw the white tent tops in the distance. Under the afternoon sun, the white was a ghastly white—not the white of snow, but the artificial white of bleached cloth worn for too long, completely out of place with the surrounding gray mountains and dirt roads.

Like another world.

The car restarted and drove towards the white expanse. He Yuzhu rolled down the window to get some fresh air, but the hot air didn't cool him down much.

A person was standing outside the tent.

Thin, with high cheekbones, and wearing round-framed glasses. He wasn't wearing a military uniform, but a gray-blue cadre's uniform, with the sleeves rolled up to his wrists, revealing a section of his tanned forearm.

Shen Lian.

He Yuzhu's left leg buckled slightly as he got out of the car. He steadied himself by holding onto the car door and took a few steps forward.

Shen Lian didn't move; he just stood there watching him walk over. Once he was in front of him, he picked up a glass of water from the small table and handed it to him.

"Deputy Division Commander He, are you thirsty?"

He Yuzhu took the cup and poured half of it down. The water was lukewarm and had a bleach smell.

"What did you find out about that prisoner, Parker?" Shen Lian waited for him to finish his drink before speaking.

He Yuzhu put the cup back on the table. He glanced at Shen Lian's expressionless face, then looked at the white tent behind him—someone was talking inside, but he couldn't hear what they were saying; their tone was steady, like they were reading from a script.

"The coordination frequency table between the Capital Division and the U.S. 3rd Division," he said. "And the next-day air strike plan."

Shen Lian nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"Nine days ago," He Yuzhu added.

Shen Lian took out a cigarette from his pocket, pulled one out, and handed it to He Yuzhu. He Yuzhu waved his hand. He lit it himself, took a drag, and slowly exhaled.

"The Americans will deny it at the negotiating table," he said. "They'll say it's the South Korean military's own record, unrelated to the US military. Or they'll simply say it's fabricated."

He Yuzhu did not respond.

Shen Lian moved him to the side of the tent to avoid the wind, then took out a piece of paper from his briefcase and unfolded it.

The printed proposal was densely packed with text. He Yuzhu glanced at it: the military demarcation line was being redrawn, and the US military was demanding an additional five-kilometer buffer zone north of the 38th parallel.

"The US representative submitted it yesterday." Shen Lian folded the paper and stuffed it back into his briefcase. "The negotiations have stalled. We need firsthand evidence to prove the 'US Eighth Army's actual line of control and operational plans'—not evidence captured from the Capital Division, but evidence from the US military itself."

He looked at He Yuzhu.

"Can it be taken out within three days?"

The silence lasted for a few seconds.

He Yuzhu reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper folded into four sections. The paper depicted the internal structure of the AN/GRC-9—drawn overnight, from memory, from the impressions of those three days of disassembling and reassembling it repeatedly. His left hand wasn't very dexterous, and the lines trembled slightly, but each module was numbered, and the location of each interface was drawn.

He handed the blueprints to Shen Lian.

"A new type of U.S. military radio captured on the battlefield," he said. "I need domestic radio experts to tell me how many secrets it still holds that I haven't discovered."

Shen Lian took the blueprints, unfolded them, and looked at them for a long time.

It took so long that He Yuzhu thought he was going to refuse.

Then he looked up, folded the drawing, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Deputy Division Commander He," he said, "you're becoming more and more like a negotiator."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

Shen Lian glanced at his watch, then looked towards the tent.

"Three days," he said. "I'll find you experts, and you find me evidence."

He turned to leave, then stopped and looked back.

"Don't tell anyone about the radio station yet. Not even your superiors."

He Yuzhu nodded.

Shen Lian stepped into the tent. The white curtain swayed twice behind him before falling still.

He Yuzhu stood there, looking at the swaying curtain, the pale white tent top, and the gray mountains and roads in the distance.

He recalled the scorched earth still smoking on the front lines of Jincheng.

I recall those 11 neatly folded private letters.

I recalled the AN/GRC-9 with its cracked screen, covered by a raincoat, tucked away in the corner of the tent.

He turned around and walked back.

The jeep was still waiting for him. The young soldier leaned against the door, and when he saw him coming, he quickly stood up straight.

"Sir, shall we go back?"

He Yuzhu opened the car door and got in.

"go back."

The jeep started and bumped its way away from the white expanse.

July 7th night.

There is no moon.

He Yuzhu squatted in the familiar ravine. His left leg was wrapped in a new bandage; it didn't hurt, just felt stiff. Behind him, eighteen people were divided into three groups, conducting a final equipment check.

Yang Xiaobing crept back from the front and squatted down beside him.

"Deputy Division Commander, the forward outposts have changed. It's not the Capital Division, it's the US 2nd Infantry Division."

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement.

"No fighting this time, just probing." The voice was lowered to a whisper. "Find out the patrol routes, radio frequencies, and the location of the command post. Withdraw before dawn."

Yang Xiaobing nodded and then reached back forward.

He Yuzhu raised his head and looked at the dark night sky to the south.

There were no stars. There was no light. Only the occasional beam of a distant searchlight streaked across the darkness, cutting through before disappearing again.

He remembered Shen Lian's words—three days.

The AN/GRC-9, still covered by a raincoat, lay in the corner of the tent.

Parker hasn't officially spoken yet.

The shortfall of 4470 million is still there.

He pulled the unopened letter from his pocket. The bloodstains on the corners of the envelope had dried long ago, making them hard and uncomfortable against his fingers. He touched them, then put them back.

"Attention, all groups," he said in a low voice into the walkie-talkie. "Cross the line in twenty minutes."

A very soft reply came from behind.

Twenty minutes. He put the pocket watch back in his pocket. His fingers touched the letter, and he paused.

Yang Xiaobing suddenly crept back and whispered in his ear: "There's movement about fifty meters to the left flank. It could be a wild boar, or it could be a person."

He Yuzhu listened intently for a moment. In the darkness, there was only the sound of the wind and the faint sound of flowing water in the distance.

"Never mind that. Stick to the original plan."

Yang Xiaobing hesitated for half a second, then nodded and left.

He Yuzhu glanced south one last time. He pressed his hand against his left breast pocket; the letter was hard and pressed against his ribs.

Then he bent down and followed Yang Xiaobing's route, sliding into the darkness.