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

Anton Airport, March 1952.

Zhang Changkong stood by the runway, watching as one Type 2 fighter jet after another took off, formed formations, and flew south. Twelve at a time, every five minutes, in a continuous stream.

He had lost count of how many batches this was today.

Someone handed him a statistics sheet from behind. He took it and glanced at it:

Battle report, February 1952:

Frontline combat aircraft: 870

New production this month: 155 aircraft

Battle losses this month: 63 aircraft

Net increase: 92 aircraft

Total number of aircraft in service: 1840 (including early models, training aircraft, and reserve aircraft)

Total combat losses: 1023 aircraft

Total enemy aircraft shot down: 2552 (air combat kills) + 854 (ground-based air defense kills) = 3406

Air combat exchange ratio: 2.5:1

He folded the statistics sheet and put it in his pocket.

In the distance, another Type 2 fighter jet landed. The pilot climbed out of the cockpit, took off his helmet, and revealed a young face, looking to be in his early twenties.

He ran over and saluted Zhang Changkong.

"Reporting to the commander, the seventh batch of new pilots has reported for duty. Eighty-seven men, all of whom have completed jet fighter training."

Zhang Changkong nodded.

"Assign them to the reserve team to familiarize themselves with the battlefield environment. They will first conduct patrols by plane, and then be deployed to the front line after a month."

"yes!"

The young pilot saluted and then ran away.

Zhang Changkong stood there, watching his back.

He recalled that he was the same age when he first came to North Korea.

Back then, it was three hundred against eight hundred, and every time we took off, we didn't know if we would be able to come back.

Currently, there are 870 front-line combat aircraft and 300 in reserve.

The factory behind the scenes is still producing 150 new aircraft every month.

He turned and walked toward the command post.

A voice came through the walkie-talkie: "Commander, radar has detected enemy activity. Approximately two hundred aircraft, heading south, altitude eight thousand."

Zhang Changkong pressed the call button.

"It's time for the rotation. Let the front-line troops rest, and the second-line troops go up to practice."

Shenyang, Zhao Ping'an's office.

The table was piled high with telegrams, reports, and plans. He flipped through them one by one, signing each one.

"Shenyang Aircraft Factory's March production plan: 155 fighter jets of two types; 200 engines; spare parts to be 200% complete."

It's signed.

"Harbin Aircraft Engine Factory completed its February report: 187 engines were delivered, with a pass rate of 98.7%."

It's signed.

"Air Force Command requests: 200 new pilots for training in March."

It's signed.

The people next to them waited to take their portions one by one.

After signing the last page, Zhao Pingan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

I remember 1950. At that time, the Shenyang Aircraft Factory had just started production, and it was difficult to produce even 30 aircraft per month.

The workers assemble the parts during the day and study the blueprints at night. The engine needs to be replaced from within the system; they can't build it themselves.

Currently, the three aircraft factories, two engine factories, and seventeen supporting factories in Northeast China are producing 150 Type 2 fighter jets every month.

He opened his eyes and picked up a telegram. It was from Commander Peng:

"The Air Force already has 800 aircraft, but the U.S. military still has 1,000. They are replenishing quickly by transferring them from the mainland. We need to expand further to maintain pressure. Peng."

He picked up a pen and wrote a line on the back of the telegram:

"A thousand aircraft can be produced in May, Zhao."

May 1952, north of Qingchuan River.

Zhang Changkong stood in front of the radar screen in the command center, looking at the densely packed dots of light.

Green ones, 1,020. Red ones, about 900.

The staff officer handed over a monthly statistic.

"Commander, the exchange ratio in May was 2.4:1. Our army lost 87 aircraft and replenished 153. The net increase was 66 aircraft. The total number of equipment has exceeded 2,000."

Zhang Changkong nodded.

How many US troops were lost?

"In May, 209 aircraft were shot down in air combat and 65 were shot down by ground-based air defenses, for a total of 274. The cumulative losses have exceeded 3,500 aircraft."

Zhang Changkong remained silent for a few seconds.

Three thousand five hundred aircraft. The Far East Air Force's total strength at the start of the war was only about a thousand aircraft. They transported three ships from the mainland and filled them all up.

He told his staff, "Send a telegram to Commander Peng: Our front-line combat aircraft have reached one thousand. The US military's numerical advantage no longer exists."

It is recommended that a large-scale air battle be launched when the opportunity arises to completely shatter their confidence.

Tokyo, July 1952.

Major General Partridge, commander of the U.S. Far East Air Forces, sat in his office, looking at the map in front of him.

On the map, the area north of the Chongchon River is marked in dark red. That is the "Absolute Control Zone of the Republic's Air Force".

Three months ago, that area was a contested zone between the two sides. Now, it's completely red.

The staff officer came in to report: "General, the August supplementary plan has been approved. One hundred and fifty aircraft."

Partridge nodded.

The staff officer added:

"But the Chinese are replenishing their fleet even faster. Intelligence indicates that they are adding more than 150 aircraft every month. The number of front-line combat aircraft is estimated to have exceeded 1,000."

Partridge remained silent for a long time.

"Where did they get so many planes? Aren't they afraid the factory will be bombed?"

No one answered.

What they didn't know was that the aircraft factories in Shenyang, Harbin, and Anshan had already equipped themselves with anti-aircraft missile battalions three months earlier.

The American planes attempted to bomb it three times, losing more than forty aircraft, and never dared to come again.

September 4, 1952, 4:00 AM.

Zhang Changkong sat in the command post, staring at the radar screen.

On the screen, the red dots in the south are increasing. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, five hundred—and they're still increasing.

Five hundred and fifty. Six hundred.

"Commander, the US military has deployed. The total number is about 600 aircraft: 300 F-86s, 200 F-84s, and 100 F-80s."

Zhang Changkong stood up.

"Order: All 600 aircraft of the front-line troops are to be deployed."

The staff officer was taken aback.

"all?"

"All of them," Zhang Changkong said. "Three hundred reserve aircraft are on standby, ready to take over at any time. Today is not the final battle, but a show of force. Let them see what air superiority really means."

At 5:00 AM sharp, 600 Type 2 fighter jets took off simultaneously.

At Andong Airport, Dagushan Airport, and Fengcheng Airport, all runways roared simultaneously.

A batch of twelve planes took off continuously, every three minutes. Before dawn, the northern sky was already completely covered by airplanes.

Zhang Changkong sat in front of the screen in the command center, watching the green dots move. Six hundred of them, densely packed, like a flock of migrating birds.

At 5:50, the two groups of aircraft met.

The air battle lasted for three and a half hours.

Zhang Changkong sat in the command post, listening to the constant sounds coming from the walkie-talkie:

"One squadron shot down four aircraft, while losing one of its own."

"The Second Squadron has engaged the enemy aircraft group and is currently splitting them up!"

"The Third Battalion has run out of missiles and requests backup!"

"The Fourth Battalion is diving down; stop them from escaping!"

The staff officer recorded the results. In one hour, 87 aircraft were shot down. In two hours, 163 were shot down. In three hours, 224 were shot down.

At 9:30 a.m., the American planes began to withdraw.

Zhang Changkong stood up.

"Order: Frontline troops return to base. Reserve force of 300 aircraft will pursue for 50 kilometers before returning to base."

He walked out of the command post and stood at the door.

The sky was a clear blue, without a single cloud. In the distance, rows of Type 2 fighter jets were landing on the runway.

Some were intact, some had bullet holes, and some had their landing gear unable to be lowered, sparking a trail of sparks on the runway. But they all came back.

The staff officer ran over and handed him a statistics sheet.

"Staff officer, send a telegram to Commander Peng."

Zhang Changkong took it, glanced at it, and spoke.

"Today, our air force launched a decisive battle against the enemy. Six hundred against six hundred, we shot down two hundred and twenty-four, but lost seventy-three of our own."

After this battle, there were no more enemy aircraft north of the Qingchuan River. — Zhang Changkong

He folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

In the distance, another Type 2 fighter jet landed. The young pilot climbed out of the cockpit, took off his helmet, his face covered in soot, but his eyes were bright.

He ran over and saluted Zhang Changkong.

"Commander! I shot down one! An F-86!"

Zhang Changkong looked at him.

"Well done."

The young pilot grinned, revealing a set of white teeth.

Zhang Changkong suddenly remembered that winter of 1950. It was then that he shot down his first enemy plane, and he smiled just like that.

But back then, it was three hundred against eight hundred, and every day some brothers couldn't come back.

Now, with six hundred planes against six hundred, fewer and fewer people are not coming back.

He turned and walked towards the command post.

Behind them, reserve planes were still taking off, heading south in pursuit.

The sky is very blue.

On September 5, Commander Peng's telegram arrived in Shenyang.

"On September 4th, the Great Air Battle of the Chongchon River took place. Our army dispatched 600 aircraft in the front line, shooting down 224 American aircraft while losing 73 of its own."

The remaining American aircraft retreated in disarray. Air superiority north of the Chongchon River was now in our hands. A total of 3,700 enemy aircraft were shot down, while 1,100 were lost on our own. The exchange ratio was 2.5:1. Peng.

Zhao Ping'an stared at it for a long time.

Fold the telegram neatly and put it in the drawer.

There was another telegram in the drawer, sent by the boss a few days ago:

"The Americans recently deployed B-29s to Okinawa, and intelligence indicates they may be conducting nuclear missile drills. Comrade Ping An, how much longer until we reach Lop Nur?"

Zhao Pingan closed the drawer, stood up, and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the sky over Shenyang was a clear blue. In the distance, smoke was still billowing from the factory chimneys, and the train station whistles sounded one after another.

I recall what Mr. Qian said before he passed away:

"Three years. Give me three years."

Now, it has been exactly three years.