Courtyard House: I Rely on Time-Space Trade to Build a Nation

Chapter 112 The Military Spirit That Crossed the Yalu River!

Between June and October 1950, the tide of the war turned faster than anyone had anticipated.

At the end of June, the Northern People's Army crossed the 38th parallel with unstoppable momentum.

Mid-July, Daejeon.

In early August, the Nakdong River.

By early September, the North Korean People's Army had compressed the South Korean forces into a small area of less than 10,000 square kilometers around Busan.

Everyone thought the war would end at the end of the month.

Only the Republic's military advisors repeatedly told the Northern Army that the Allied forces might land at Incheon.

But the Northern Army, already caught up in the moment or perhaps having planned it all along, persisted in its course, heading south, and further south.

Then, on September 15th, in Incheon.

MacArthur's gamble paid off.

Tides, terrain, timing—the Allied landing zone on the peninsula's waist was like a dagger.

They penetrated deep into the rear of the Northern People's Army. Supply lines were cut off, the front lines collapsed, retreat turned into rout, and rout turned into escape.

On October 1, the Allied forces crossed the 38th parallel.

On October 9, MacArthur issued an ultimatum: "Surrender or be destroyed."

On October 19, Pyongyang fell.

On the same evening, on the north bank of the Yalu River, in Andong.

Four American jets skimmed very low over the river, their cannons under their wings spitting fire.

Chinese workers at the docks, women washing clothes by the river, children returning home from school.

Some people fell in pools of blood, while others were thrown into the river by the blast wave.

The shell landed in front of a blacksmith's shop, and Old Zhou, who had been blacksmithing for forty years, was killed on the spot.

When Zhao Ping'an received this message, he was in Shenyang organizing the third batch of supplies to be sent to North Korea overnight.

The telegram contained only a few dozen words, and he read it for a long time.

This time, comrades who sent no telegrams or phone calls to Beijing could only wait silently.

Three days later, a telegram arrived from Beiping:

"Resist America, Aid Korea, Protect Our Homes and Defend Our Country."

Eight words, weighing a ton.

Zhao Pingan folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

Outside the window, the lights of the Shenyang Arsenal burned brightly all night.

Workers work in three shifts, and the machines run day and night. On the assembly line...

Rows of brand-new Type 2 aircraft are undergoing final adjustments.

Tracked trailers transported the assembled Type 59 tanks onto the military train.

This country did not declare war, nor did it utter any grand pronouncements.

All that exists is the supplies that one person prepared over two years, and the determination of the entire nation to unite as one.

October 19, 1950, dusk. The Yalu River.

Zhao Ping'an stood on the riverbank, watching the last batch of troops cross the makeshift pontoon bridge.

There was no military band, no cheering crowd.

Only the dull thud of heavy tracks rolling over steel plates and the deep roar of the truck engine could be heard.

The soldiers marched in silence, their steps unsteady yet perfectly synchronized.

He recognized some of the faces.

The tank commander at the head of the procession was a veteran technician who used to operate excavators at Anshan Iron and Steel Group.

Despite having a broken leg, he still insisted on going to the front lines.

The young squad leader in the middle of the group, carrying the 56th squad's machine gun, was among the first batch of students at Shenyang Technical School.

When he graduated last year, he personally escorted him to his unit.

The communications soldier at the end of the line, carrying a radio, was only nineteen years old, his face still covered in the downy hair of a teenager.

Three months ago, he was driving a tractor in the Northeast reclamation area.

They walked past him without recognizing Zhao Ping'an.

Zhao Ping'an stood there, watching them disappear into the twilight.

He suddenly remembered the winter of 1948.

When he first transmigrated, the soldiers around him were emaciated and some didn't even have shoes.

Two years.

In two years, he gave them new guns, new cannons, new tanks, new airplanes, new trucks, new food, and new hope.

Zhao Ping'an thought that was all he could do.

But at this moment, looking at those silent figures, he suddenly understood.

Even without themselves, they will defeat the enemy as they have done in history; this army is invincible.

What truly made this army invincible was never the weapons he provided.

He was a farmer who received land during the land reform in 1947 and sent his son to the front lines.

He was a soldier who ate his fill for the first time in 1948 and learned to write his own name in the trenches.

It was on October 1, 1949, that 10 people in Tiananmen Square shouted "Long live the people!"

Those countless tearful eyes.

They are not fighting for any ideology, any officials, or any strategic buffer.

They are fighting to protect their land, their livelihood, their dignity, and the future of their children.

They had knelt for far too many years.

Now we've stood up.

The Americans are coming to make them kneel down again.

They absolutely will not agree to this!!

A river breeze blew by, carrying the chill of early winter.

Zhao Ping'an stood there for a long time until the last truck drove across the pontoon bridge and disappeared into the night on the other side of the river.

He took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

The firelight flickered in the wind.

In the distance, from the opposite bank of the river, came a low, muffled cannon shot.

The war has truly begun.

He stubbed out his cigarette and turned to walk toward the jeep parked by the roadside.

The driver asked, "Sir, are we heading back to Shenyang?"

Zhao Pingan opened the car door.

"Go back to Shenyang."

The car headlights pierced the darkness as it drove home.

Behind us, the sound of the Yalu River gradually faded into the distance.

Ahead, the factory lights stretched out in a continuous line.

New airplanes, new tanks, and new shells are being produced day and night on the assembly line.