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

November 30, Liutanli.

Lieutenant Colonel Murray decided not to wait any longer.

He organized the remaining 800 men of his regiment who were still capable of fighting into three assault battalions, and concentrated the last six barely functional Pershing vehicles in an attempt to break out to the south.

Fifteen minutes after the breakout began, all six Pershing vehicles were destroyed.

The Chinese anti-tank missiles were fired from both flanks in a crisscross pattern, and each one hit its target precisely.

The turret was blown off, the tracks broke, and the bodies of the crew members were hanging on the hatch.

Lieutenant Colonel Murray's jeep had its engine pierced by machine gun fire.

He got out of the car and walked.

People around me kept falling, shot. The snow was stained red with blood, only to be quickly covered by new snow.

At dusk, Murray led more than three hundred men back to Willow Pond.

He wrote a sentence in his battle log for that day:

"The 5th Marine Regiment has lost its offensive capability."

December 1, Hagaru-ri.

Smith's command post was packed with people.

Lieutenant Colonel Murray had just been withdrawn from the front lines and had shrapnel wounds on his face that hadn't been bandaged.

The acting commander of the 7th Marine Regiment; the original commander was killed by a sniper three days ago.

Artillery battalion commander: Only one-third of the artillery pieces remain. Logistics director: Medical supplies are exhausted.

No one speaks.

Smith spoke up.

How many people are still in Willow Pond?

"Less than four hundred are capable of fighting," Murray said calmly.

"There are over four hundred wounded. We have no fuel for heating and have run out of medicine."

The amputation surgery ran out of anesthesia, so they had to use morphine. And they're almost out of morphine too.

"What about the direction of Gutuli?"

The logistics director shook his head.

"Of the reconnaissance platoon sent out last night, only two returned this morning."

The highway was lined with Chinese tanks. A platoon of thirty-two men, and two returned.

silence.

Smith stood up and walked to the window.

With his back to everyone, he asked in a low voice:

How many of us are left?

No one answered.

After a long time, the operations staff opened the statistics table.

"The fighting force in Liutanli numbered approximately four thousand. Casualties and frostbite losses have exceeded two thousand five hundred."

After the fall of Dedong Pass, of the 420 men of the Saikelian, less than 80 returned to their unit.

"In the direction of Gutuli..." He paused.

"The tank battalion, artillery battalion, and 31st Regiment combat team, totaling approximately 3,300 men, have lost contact."

His voice grew softer and softer.

"The garrison at Hagaru-ri originally numbered three thousand. Now, only twelve hundred of them are still capable of carrying guns."

He closed the statistics table.

"General, the 1st Marine Division has fewer than 3,000 men still capable of fighting."

12 PM on December 1st.

Smith sat alone in the command center.

An unfinished draft telegram lay spread out on the table. It had been revised many times.

He recalled Guam in 1944, the final Banzai charge by the Japanese army.

He stood behind the Sherman tank, watching the ragged soldiers rushing towards him with bamboo poles in hand.

He thought to himself: These people are crazy.

Now he understands.

Those people aren't crazy. They just had no choice.

Suddenly, a commotion arose outside the command post.

He got up and pushed the door open.

At the edge of the circular position, several Type 59 tanks were parked 150 meters away, their gun barrels pointing diagonally towards the night sky.

The tank commander opened the hatch and shouted to the position in a language that was not understood.

The translator stumbled over.

"General, they...they let..."

"What do you want me to do?"

The translator lowered his head.

"I'm asking you to send someone to negotiate your surrender at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

December 2, 1950, 8:50 a.m.

Smith straightened his uniform and walked out of the command post.

This was the cleanest uniform he had ever worn during his 34 years of military service.

During the war, I never wore it and kept it at the very bottom of my suitcase.

He walked across the trenches.

The soldiers looked at him. Some were crying, but most were expressionless.

A private sat in a foxhole, disassembling his carbine.

He removed the bolt, wiped it on the snow, wrapped it in oil paper, and put it in his breast pocket.

Smith stopped in his tracks.

"What's your name?"

The private raised his head. He was very young, perhaps only nineteen.

"General Anderson."

"What are you doing?"

Anderson looked down at the pocket containing the gun bolt.

"My father fought in World War I. He said that when the war was over, you could hand over your gun, but keep the bolt for yourself. That was the last bit of hope for a soldier."

Smith remained silent for a long time.

"Anderson".

"Yes, General."

"You did the right thing."

He continued walking forward.

At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Smith stepped out of the circular position.

Across from us, a jeep was approaching from the direction the Chinese were coming from. A white flag was flying over its hood.

A Chinese military officer stepped off the vehicle. He was about thirty years old, with a thin face and an old scar on his left cheek. He was accompanied by a translator.

"General Smith." The Chinese officer saluted. "Zhao Dongliang, Deputy Commander of the 9th Army Corps of the Chinese People's Volunteer Army."

Smith returned the greeting.

"General Zhao, the 1st Marine Division requests your assistance in receiving our wounded. We have approximately 3,700 wounded, including 1,200 seriously wounded, who urgently need medical care."

Zhao Dongliang nodded.

"The wounded will receive timely medical treatment. Prisoners of war will be treated humanely. Personal belongings will be preserved."

He paused, his gaze falling on the Colt pistol with the family crest engraved on Smith's waist.

"General Smith, you may keep your sidearm."

Smith looked down at the gun.

It was left to him by his father. His father had used it in World War I, and he had taken it with him in World War II. The wood grain of the gun handle was soaked with sweat and blood, and the color was very dark.

He unbuckled his belt and placed it, along with the holster, on the hood of the jeep.

"No need," he said. "I don't need it."

December 2, 1950, 2:00 PM.

At the edge of the Hagaru-ri circular position, the surrender ceremony of the Chinese People's Volunteer Army was held amidst wind and snow.

The remaining 5,500 men of the 1st Marine Division marched out of their positions.

The wounded were carried on stretchers, and those suffering from frostbite helped each other. No one spoke.

Smith stood at the front of the line and handed over the flag of the 1st Marine Division to Zhao Dongliang.

That blue flag fluttered in the sea breeze over Okinawa, Incheon, and Seoul.

At this moment, it is slowly folding in the snow at Changjin Lake.

A volunteer soldier received the flag, stood at attention, and saluted.

Smith returned the greeting.

Zhao Dongliang gave the order in a low voice:

"Take the prisoners to the rear and treat them according to international practice. Prioritize the transfer of those with severe frostbite."

He turned to Smith.

"General, the war is over. For you and your soldiers."

Smith did not answer.

He glanced back at the silent queue behind him.

Five thousand five hundred people.

At the time of departure, the 1st Marine Division had nearly 25,000 men.

He didn't know where the rest of the people had gone. He only knew they weren't here.

The snow is getting bigger and bigger.

Smith looked up at the gray sky to the north.

He remembered the breechblock Anderson had slipped into his pocket.

He recalled the line in Lieutenant Colonel Murray's operations log: "Incapable of attack."

He recalled the trembling fingers of the military medic as he bandaged the wound with parachute cloth.

He remembered the black soldier who asked him, "Can I still go home?"

He lowered his head.

"Yes," he said, "for us."

December 3, 1950, Shenyang.

When Zhao Ping'an received the telegram from the Eastern Front, he was at the test flight station inspecting a batch of newly arrived Type 2 fighter engines.

He took the telegram.

The Battle of Chosin Reservoir ended. Approximately 5,500 remnants of the 1st Marine Division surrendered to our forces at Hagaru-ri.

There were 3,700 wounded. Smith and lower-ranking officers were treated leniently in custody in accordance with international practice.

In this battle, more than 15,000 enemy soldiers were killed, wounded, or captured, and 40 tanks, more than 100 artillery pieces, and more than 800 vehicles were seized.

The Allied forces on the Eastern Front no longer had any organized resistance.

He read it once.

I watched it again.

He then folded the telegram, put it in his pocket, and picked up the wrench again.

The technician standing nearby asked cautiously, "Sir, what should we do?"

"We won," Zhao Ping'an said. "The 1st Marine Division surrendered."

The technician was taken aback.

"Really? We can defeat the American devils?"

"It's true! We've already defeated the enemy's vanguard on the eastern front!"

With Zhao Ping'an's confirmation, cheers erupted throughout the factory. At first, it was just one or two people, and many were still confused. But soon the news spread, and everyone cheered excitedly, knowing that they had contributed to that victory...