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

December 31, 1950, dusk. North bank of the Imjin River.

Zhao Ping'an stood on a high point, his binoculars revealing the frozen river. The setting sun, like blood, stained the snow on the river a pale red. On the opposite bank, the US and South Korean military positions were quiet, occasionally swept by searchlights like a weary eye.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Commander Deng, wearing an overcoat, walked over and stood beside him.

"Comrade Ping An, what are you doing here?"

"have a look."

Commander Deng also raised his binoculars.

Is the river frozen solid?

"The engineers have scouted it out; tanks can pass through," Zhao Ping'an said. "The Type 59's tracks are wide enough for 30 centimeters of ice. Now they're 45 centimeters."

Commander Deng nodded and put down his binoculars.

"Commander Peng sent me to call you back. We'll all have a meal together before the final assault."

Zhao Ping'an did not move.

"Commander Deng, I have a question for you."

"explain."

"Will this battle end the war?"

Commander Deng remained silent for a while.

"I don't know," he said, "but going forward, the war certainly won't end."

He turned around and looked at Zhao Ping'an.

"Comrade Ping An, what you gave us saved many of our soldiers from dying."

This is a good deed. But war is never about settling accounts. The sooner the war is over, the more lives can be saved.

Zhao Pingan put away his binoculars.

"clear."

7 PM, command center.

On a simple wooden table, several dishes were laid out:

Scrambled eggs, pork stew with vermicelli, spicy cabbage, and a bowl of steaming hot steamed buns.

Commander Peng sat in the main seat, with the commanders of each army corps sitting around him.

Zhao Ping'an sat in the corner, with a bowl of rice in front of him.

Commander Peng picked up his teacup.

"Comrades, today is the last day of 1950. As is customary, let's have a drink."

He paused.

"But alcohol is forbidden at the front, so let's use tea instead. Cheers!"

Everyone picked up their teacups and drank them down in one gulp.

Commander Peng put down his teacup and glanced at everyone present.

"We won the Battle of Chosin Reservoir, but the 1st Marine Division is gone. The Americans have retreated beyond the 38th parallel, and Seoul is just ahead."

"But the battle is not over yet."

He stood up and walked to the map on the wall.

"Tonight, three armies will cross the river simultaneously from three directions. We must break through the Imjin River defense line before dawn tomorrow. The day after tomorrow—January 2, 1951—the tank units will advance to the northern outskirts of Seoul."

He turned around.

"Ridgway has just taken over as commander of the Eighth Army. I've heard he's more difficult to deal with than MacArthur. He's reorganizing the defensive lines, trying to keep us south of the 38th parallel."

"Our mission is to break through before he gains a foothold."

Commander Song put down his chopsticks: "Commander Peng, rest assured, the troops are ready. The tank regiment arrived two days ahead of schedule, rocket launchers have been distributed to the squads, and ammunition is plentiful."

Commander Hong continued, "On the eastern front, the mountain roads are difficult to traverse, but the soldiers' morale is high. They're all eager to fight their way across the 38th parallel."

Commander Peng nodded and returned to his seat.

"Okay. Let's eat."

At midnight on January 1, 1951.

Suddenly, artillery fire erupted along the Imjin River defense line.

More than a thousand cannons fired simultaneously, shells tearing through the night sky and exploding into bursts of fire on the opposite bank.

The roar of the 155mm howitzer was deep and powerful, while the sound of the 122mm cannon was sharper. The two sounds intertwined, like the roar of countless giant beasts.

Zhao Ping'an stood outside the command post, looking at the firelight on the opposite bank.

This was the first time he had personally witnessed the artillery he had allocated being used in actual combat.

The shells being produced day and night on the assembly line of the Shenyang arsenal are now being fired one after another at the enemy's position.

The shelling lasted for thirty minutes.

At 00:30, the first wave of assault troops began to cross the river.

The Type 59 tanks rolled out from their concealed positions, their tracks grinding through the frozen ground, and slowly made their way to the river.

The ice creaked and groaned under the tracks, but the tank moved steadily forward.

Following behind the tanks were infantrymen. They advanced rapidly, crouching low, their bayonets gleaming coldly in the moonlight, their footsteps sloping across the ice.

On the opposite bank, the surviving firing positions began to retaliate.

Machine gun bullets struck the ice, sending up shards of ice and sparks. Some fell, but more continued to rush forward.

Zhao Ping'an clenched his fist.

At 2:00 AM on January 1st, the first breakthrough was achieved.

The South Korean 1st Division's defenses collapsed under the onslaught of Type 59 tanks.

The soldiers, who had never seen such a steel behemoth before, watched helplessly as the tank rolled over their fortifications, the turrets spun, and a shell blasted the command post into ruins.

Infantry poured in through the breach, their Type 56 assault rifles spitting fire in the night.

The RPG-7 fired at close range, destroying the last few stubbornly resisting bunkers.

At 3 a.m., the breach expanded to three kilometers.

At 5:00 AM, the second echelon entered the battle and advanced ten kilometers south.

By daybreak, the Imjin River defense line had been completely breached.

January 2, northern suburbs of Seoul.

Zhao Ping'an followed the advance troops into a small village.

The village was deserted, with supplies abandoned by the retreating US troops scattered on the ground: ammunition boxes, cans, torn uniforms, and several jeeps that hadn't been driven away.

A soldier squatted on the ground and opened a magazine left behind by the US military.

The cover features a blonde woman with a radiant smile.

"Who's this?" he asked the person next to him.

"I don't know. Anyway, it's not our mom."

Several people laughed.

Zhao Ping'an walked over, took the magazine, and flipped through it. It was all in English, which he could understand, but he didn't intend to translate it.

"Put it away and hand it to the political work department." He handed the magazine back, "It'll be useful if you keep it."

A rumble came from afar. Several Type 59 tanks were advancing south along the road, their tracks kicking up dust.

The train conductor leaned out halfway, his face smeared with black ash, and waved to them.

Zhao Pingan raised his hand and waved.

January 4, Seoul.

The Chinese People's Volunteer Army entered the city from the north.

The streets were deserted; most residents had fled south.

The shop's doors and windows were tightly shut, and anti-communist slogans were pasted on the walls, which were torn and damaged by the wind.

Zhao Ping'an sat in a jeep, slowly driving through the city center.

Several soldiers were posting notices by the roadside, outlining three rules:

Do not disturb the people, do not take a single needle or thread from the masses, and abide by discipline.

An old man peeked out from under the door, looked around, and then withdrew.

Commander Hong jumped out of the car in front and walked to Zhao Ping'an's side.

"Comrade Ping An, how's it going?"

Zhao Pingan shook his head.

"It's not like occupying a city, it's like walking into a ghost town."

Commander Hong lit a cigarette.

"When the Americans withdrew, they took many people with them. Lee's government also fled. Those who remained were too afraid to come out."

He exhaled a puff of smoke.

"But they will come back. They will come back when they find out that we don't kill, set fires, or steal."

January 8, Volunteer Army Headquarters.

Commander Peng stood in front of the map, his brow furrowed.

The troops have advanced to the vicinity of the 37th parallel, less than 200 kilometers from Busan.

But the supply line was too long, stretching from the Yalu River to Seoul, over a thousand kilometers.

Even with the Liberation trucks running day and night, they could only barely maintain the minimum supply to the front lines.

Commander Deng walked in.

"Commander Peng, reconnaissance report: US forces are redeploying along the Daejeon-Daegu line. Ridgway is personally overseeing the operation."

Commander Peng remained silent.

"Furthermore, Air Force reconnaissance has revealed a large number of tanks and vehicles being assembled behind US lines. A counterattack may be imminent."

Commander Peng finally spoke.

"Order: Halt to advance. All units to switch to defense."

Commander Deng was taken aback.

"Not playing anymore?"

"We're not going to fight anymore," Commander Peng said. "If we go any further, supplies won't keep up. That's what Ridgway was waiting for."

He turned around and looked at the 38th parallel on the map.

"This battle has reached its limit."

That evening, Zhao Ping'an was summoned to the command post.

Commander Peng sat there with a telegram in front of him.

"Comrade Ping An, take a look at this."

Zhao Ping'an took the telegram.

It was a commendation order issued by the central government.

The results of the third campaign are listed above:

They broke through the Imjin River, liberated Seoul, advanced more than 100 kilometers south, and annihilated more than 19,000 enemy troops.

The last paragraph reads:

"Thank you to all the officers and soldiers for their heroic fighting."

Thank you to Comrade Zhao Ping'an and all the staff of the Northeast Industrial Base.

To provide weapons, equipment and logistical support to the front lines.

You have saved our soldiers from shedding so much blood.

After reading the telegram, Zhao Pingan put it back on the table.

Commander Peng looked at him.

"Is there anything you'd like to say?"

Zhao Ping'an remained silent for a while.

"Commander Peng, the battle has gone on for so long, when do you think it will end?"

Commander Peng did not answer immediately.

He walked to the window and looked at the night outside.

"I don't know," he said, "but one thing I'm sure of: as long as those things are still running on your assembly line, as long as our soldiers still have those things in their hands, the Americans can't win."

He turned around.

That's enough.

Late at night.

Zhao Ping'an walked out of the command post and stood in the courtyard.

In the distance, there are scattered lights in the direction of Seoul.

Those were the troops' encampments, where engineers were repairing power generation equipment to bring light back to this dark city.

Commander Deng followed him out and handed him a cigarette.

"Comrade Ping An, are you going back to Northeast China tomorrow?"

"Yes. They've been urging us several times; there are a few production lines waiting to be tested."

Commander Deng nodded.

"It's good that you're going back. We'll need your stuff for the next battle."

He lit a cigarette and took a drag.

"Did you heed what Commander Peng said today?"

Zhao Ping'an looked at him.

He said that as long as things keep turning, the Americans can't win.

Commander Deng smiled.

"Then remember that. Go back and explore carefully."

Zhao Ping'an remained silent.

I looked up at the night sky.

In North Korea, the stars shine exceptionally bright in winter.

In the distance, a long, drawn-out whistle sounded from somewhere, as if calling out something.

He remembered the tanks that crossed the Imjin River, the soldier who asked, "Who is this?", and the old man who peeked out from under the door.

The war is not over yet.

But some things are no longer the same as in the history we remember.