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

October 15, 1951, Shangganling, 10 meters underground.

Li Changhe had lost track of what day it was.

There is no day or night in the tunnel. The lights are on 24 hours a day, and the ventilation fans are running 24 hours a day. Only the calendar on the wall tells him: yesterday was the first day, and today is the second day.

The fighting is still going on outside.

The sound of cannons traveled through the thirty-meter-thick rock layer, becoming muffled, like someone beating drums in a distant place.

The artillery fire came in bursts, sometimes dense, sometimes sparse, making it impossible to tell whether it was American artillery or their own.

He crouched near the tunnel entrance, listening to the sound.

The staff officer climbed over and handed him a statistic.

"Commander, the American troops made two more attempts to approach last night. They were driven back both times."

I don't know how many were killed, but I'd estimate twenty or thirty.

Li Changhe nodded.

"What about ours?"

There were no casualties last night.

Li Changhe was stunned for a moment.

"No?"

"No." The staff officer handed him the notebook to look at.

"Yesterday, two people were killed and eleven were wounded. Including the first day, the total number of deaths is five and the number of wounded is twenty-eight."

Li Changhe looked at those numbers without saying a word.

He thought of Tieyuan. Forty-seven were killed and one hundred and twenty wounded on the first day.

By the second day, the number had doubled. By the seventh day, there were still fifty triples left.

Here, it's been two days, and five have been killed.

He returned the notebook to the staff officer.

"Tell all the tunnels not to be careless. The US military isn't stupid; they'll find a way."

The staff officer nodded and crawled away.

Li Changhe leaned against the rock wall and closed his eyes.

The muffled sound of cannon fire continued overhead.

On the same day, on the ground, at the US military command post.

Van Fleet stared at the battle report on the table, his face grim.

"Results of the second day of the showdown: Surface positions were captured, but the tunnel entrances could not be approached. Casualties: 127."

He slammed the battle report on the table.

"One hundred and twenty-seven people, and they just moved to a barren hilltop?"

The staff officer dared not speak.

The intelligence officer, forcing a smile, spoke up: "General, the Chinese tunnels are much deeper than we estimated. They're at least thirty meters deep. Our artillery can't penetrate them."

Van Fleet remained silent for a long time.

"What about the Air Force?"

"The Air Force tried using napalm to seal the entrance to the hole."

But they had too many tunnel entrances; if one was sealed off, another would pop out.

Moreover, every tunnel entrance was under fire, so our planes dared not fly low.

Van Fleet walked to the window, his back to everyone.

"Where did they get the tunnels? Three months ago, that area was just a few earthen hills."

No one could answer him.

Deep inside the tunnel, at the medical station.

The medic squatted beside the stretcher, changing the dressing of a wounded soldier.

The wounded soldier was hit by shrapnel, leaving a deep but long gash on his back that required more than twenty stitches.

The wounded soldier lay on the stretcher, silent.

The medic asked as he changed the dressing, "Does it hurt?"

"It doesn't hurt."

"If it doesn't hurt, why are you gritting your teeth?"

The wounded soldier did not answer.

After the medic finished changing the dressing, he patted him on the shoulder.

"Alright. Go back to bed and rest. You can return to the front lines tomorrow."

The wounded soldier got up and started to walk outside. After a few steps, he stopped.

"Medical worker."

"Um?"

"The one we sent in yesterday, the one whose leg was blown off, will he survive?"

The medic remained silent for a few seconds.

"Yes. The bleeding was stopped in time because it was taken down promptly."

The wounded soldier nodded and left.

The medic squatted there, watching his back.

Someone nearby asked, "That guy whose leg was blown off, can he really survive?"

The medic shook his head.

"It's going to be tough. He was almost completely drained of blood when he was taken in. But I can't tell him."

The man didn't speak.

The medic stood up and continued packing the medicine box.

Deep inside the tunnel, another stretcher was carried in.

October 18th, Day 10.

Li Changhe squatted at the entrance of the tunnel, looking out through the observation hole.

The surface positions were completely unrecognizable. There were craters everywhere, some large enough to bury a truck.

The soil was black, the stones were broken, and the air was filled with the smell of burning.

But the US military still couldn't get up there.

Every time they charged up, a group of people would emerge from the tunnel, fight for a while, and then retreat back in.

Like the tide, it rises and falls, rises and falls.

The US military tried using explosives to blow up the tunnel entrance. They sent someone to the entrance, placed an explosive charge, and detonated it. With a loud bang, the entrance collapsed.

But the next day, a new hole appeared ten meters away.

The US military tried using flamethrowers to burn it. The flames that shot in were thirty or forty meters long, charring the supporting timbers near the tunnel entrance.

But once the fire was extinguished, the people inside climbed out again and continued fighting.

The US military tried using bulldozers to fill the hole. They covered the opening with soil and compacted it.

But at night, the pile of soil was dug up from inside again.

Looking at the Americans who were rushing in and then retreating, and then rushing in again, Li Changhe suddenly thought of Tieyuan.

They did the same thing at Tieyuan, charging and retreating, then charging again.

But back then there were no tunnels; you could only hide in shell craters or behind corpses. While hiding, people would simply perish.

Now, he crouches in a 30-meter-deep trench, listening to the muffled sounds of artillery fire overhead, and watching the Americans who just can't get through.

"Damn it, now it's Grandpa's turn to teach you a lesson."

October 22nd, the ninth day.

Life in the tunnels gradually became more structured.

At seven o'clock in the morning, the American artillery began firing. By ten o'clock, the infantry had arrived.

The fighting continued until 2 PM, then another artillery barrage. By evening, the infantry had moved in again. As night fell, small groups of troops began to sneak into positions.

Repeatedly.

The soldiers also learned a pattern. When the artillery was firing, they would hide deep in the trenches and sleep.

When the infantry came up, go to the cave entrance to fight. After fighting, come back and go back to sleep.

People started writing letters. One after another, they wrote to their wives back home, to their sons they hadn't yet met, and to their parents.

After the letter was written, it was put into a waterproof bag and handed over to the daily supply truck.

The letter would travel for forty minutes through the tunnel, then be loaded onto a military mail truck, cross the Yalu River, and head south.

Some people started learning to read. There were booklets distributed by Zhao Ping'an in the tunnel, titled "Learn One Thousand Characters," one for each soldier.

When he had nothing to do, he would squat under the light and study each word one by one.

Someone started singing. Not loudly, but humming. Humming "The East Is Red," humming "The Three Main Rules of Discipline and the Eight Points for Attention," humming those little tunes brought from their hometown. The humming echoed in the tunnel, carrying far.

Li Changhe squatted in a corner, listening to those people humming songs.

He thought of his fallen comrades. They would hum songs, tunes from northern Shaanxi, which no one could understand, and he himself couldn't say what they were called.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought.

In the distance, the hum of the ventilation fan mingled with the singing.

October 25th, the twelfth day.

Li Changhe received a telegram. It was sent from Shenyang and signed Zhao Ping'an.

The telegram was very short:

"How long can the tunnels be held?"

Li Changhe thought for a moment and asked the staff officer, "How much supplies are left?"

The staff officer flipped through the ledger.

"We have 70% of our ammunition left. We have 80% of our dry rations left. We have the most water left, over 90%."

Li Changhe nodded, picked up a pen, and wrote a line on the back of the telegram:

"Three months."

He handed the telegram to the communications soldier.

"Go back to the past."

The communications soldier crawled away.

Li Changhe squatted there, looking at the tunnel, at the soldiers sleeping in the corner, at the mountain of ammunition boxes, and at the ever-burning electric light.

He suddenly laughed.

Three months. That'll give the Americans a run for their money.

One night at the end of October.

Li Changhe squatted at the entrance of the tunnel, looking out through the crack disguised as rock.

It was quiet outside. There were no cannons, no guns, and no one.

The moon was bright, shining on the hillside that had been bombed beyond recognition.

Shell craters lay one after another, some white, some black, some deep, some shallow. The wreckage of a tank lay askew at the foot of the mountain, still smoking.

He looked for a while, then looked away.

Deep inside the tunnel, someone is playing the harmonica.

The tune was "The East Is Red." It echoed through the tunnels, passing through those who were sleeping, those who were awake, those writing letters, those cleaning their guns, carrying far, far away.

Li Changhe leaned against the rock wall, listening to the harmonica music.

He closed his eyes.

Many things came to mind: the shell craters of Tieyuan, the face of the sacrificed third company commander, those who would never come back, this thirty-meter-deep tunnel, and these people who were still alive.

The harmonica music continued.

He opened his eyes, stood up, and walked deeper into the tunnel.

As I passed the medical station, a medic was changing the dressing of a wounded soldier. The soldier gritted his teeth and remained silent.

As I passed the water tank, several soldiers were squatting there filling it with water, whispering to each other.

As we passed the ammunition depot, the quartermaster was counting supplies, taking notes in his notebook while shining a flashlight.

At the end of the road, there was a ventilation fan that ran day and night.

He stood there, listening to the buzzing sound.

Behind me, the harmonica was still playing.

He suddenly remembered something.

After the war, he wanted to go back to his hometown. He wanted to visit the graves of his comrades, burn some paper money for those who had sacrificed their lives, and tell them—

The battle was won.

The tunnel was defended.

There are quite a few people still alive.