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

Panmunjom, October 12, 1952.

The atmosphere inside the negotiation tent changed.

Commander Deng sat in the Chinese representative's seat, looking at Lieutenant General Harrison, the American representative opposite him.

Three months ago, this guy was still banging on the table and shouting, "Let airplanes and cannons debate!"

Now, he sits there with his hands on the table, not saying a word.

Today's topic is the exchange of prisoners of war.

Harrison spoke, his voice three octaves lower than usual:

"We agree with your proposed principle of 'voluntary repatriation.' However, further discussion is needed regarding its specific implementation."

Commander Deng nodded after listening to the translation.

"Then let's discuss it."

There was no arguing, no table-banging.

An hour later, the two sides reached a preliminary agreement on the framework for the exchange of prisoners of war.

As they stepped out of the tent, Commander Deng's assistant whispered, "Commander, why are they being so agreeable today?"

Commander Deng smiled.

"That incident at Lop Nur woke them up."

The negotiations lasted for five months, from October 1952 to March 1953.

In five months, the US has changed two representatives and countless excuses, but its bottom line has been constantly being pushed back.

The demarcation line issue: They no longer demanded a move north and agreed to a ceasefire in place.

Prisoner of war issue: They no longer insist on "one-to-one exchange" and agree to be repatriated according to the list.

Oversight issue: They accepted the Neutral Countries Oversight Committee's proposal.

Commander Peng, looking at the negotiation records at headquarters, said to Commander Deng:

"They haven't become more agreeable. They just know that if they continue fighting, they'll lose even more."

Commander Deng nodded.

"According to Zhang Changkong, there are 1,100 aircraft on the front line in the Air Force."

The Americans replenish 150 aircraft every month, and we replenish 150 aircraft every month, but their losses are greater than ours.

"If we fight for another year, the Far East Air Force will be gone."

Commander Peng looked at the map on the wall.

That line hasn't changed in over two years.

In June 1953, the last obstacle was cleared.

The list of prisoners of war was finalized, and both sides agreed to exchange prisoners who wished to return home. The remaining issues will be addressed later.

On July 10, representatives from both sides initialed a ceasefire agreement at Panmunjom.

On July 20th, the last batch of reinforcements arrived at the front lines. Not to fight, but to relieve troops. Those units that had held out for over two years could finally withdraw.

7月25日，彭司令签署命令：所有部队进入停火待命状态。7月27日晚22时起，全线停止一切军事行动。

When the order reached each company, the soldiers squatted in the trenches, smoking, and no one said a word.

Someone asked the company commander, "Company commander, can we really stop?"

The company commander said, "The telegram has arrived; how could it be fake?"

The man remained silent for a while.

"And then what?"

The company commander did not answer.

July 27, 1953, 10:00 AM.

Panmunjom, signing ceremony.

Commander Deng sat on one side of the long table, looking at Harrison across from him.

There were eighteen armistice agreements on the table, three in each language, thick and stacked up like a wall.

Harrison signed first. He picked up the pen and signed his name on each book without saying a word.

After signing, he put down the pen, stood up, and turned to leave.

Commander Deng also stood up, picked up a pen, turned the pages one by one, and signed his name.

After signing the last book, he put down his pen and walked out of the tent.

Outside, the sunlight was blinding.

He looked up at the sky.

A J-2 fighter jet was circling overhead. Its silver fuselage gleamed in the sunlight.

It flew very slowly, as if it were waiting for something.

The assistant asked, "Commander, shall we go back?"

Commander Deng did not move.

"etc."

July 27, 1953, 7 PM.

Li Changhe squatted at the entrance of the tunnel on Hill 597.9, staring at the watch on his wrist.

The second hand ticked away, one tick at a time.

It was eerily quiet. Unnaturally quiet. Normally at this time, American artillery would be firing, and planes would be arriving. But today, nothing was happening.

21:59.

He looked up to the south. On the American positions, searchlights were still on, but no one was moving, and there were no gun flashes.

At exactly 10:00 PM.

Quiet.

True silence.

That silence wasn't the absence of sound; it was that all the sounds had changed.

The wind is still blowing, the insects are still chirping, but the sounds of the fighting that lasted for more than two years—the sounds of cannons, gunfire, and airplanes—are all gone.

Li Changhe stood up and walked out of the tunnel.

The moonlight was bright, shining on the hillside that had been bombed for a long time.

The shell craters are still there, the scorched earth is still there, the tank wreckage is still there. But no one is firing anymore.

People followed and walked out, one, two, ten, a hundred.

They stood on the hillside, beside the bomb crater, on the ruins, looking south, looking north, looking at each other.

No one spoke.

Someone squatted down and grabbed a handful of dirt.

Someone lit a cigarette, their hand trembling.

Some people leaned against the tunnel entrance, slowly slid down, and sat there, motionless.

Li Changhe stood there for a long time.

Then he squatted down and grabbed a handful of dirt.

The soil was mixed with shrapnel, spent cartridges, gravel, and some kind of burnt stuff. It was hot, cold, and astringent.

He put the handful of soil into his pocket.

There was another handful of soil in his pocket, which he had grabbed when he left Tieyuan in 1951.

Two handfuls of soil, separated by two years and hundreds of kilometers, are now together.

He stood up and took one last look at the south.

Then he turned around and walked into the tunnel.

He stopped walking for a moment.

He thought of his former comrades-in-arms. He thought of those in Tieyuan who would forever remain there.

I thought of those who never made it out of the tunnels at Shangganling.

He stood there, his back to everyone, and his shoulders twitched.

Then continue walking forward.

That same evening, in Shenyang.

Zhao Ping'an stood in the courtyard of the arsenal, listening to the distant broadcast.

The news of the armistice agreement was being broadcast over the loudspeaker. The sound echoed through the night sky, carrying far and wide.

The courtyard was quiet. The workers stood at the workshop entrance, listening to the sound.

Some people squatted on the ground smoking, some leaned against the wall in a daze, and some put their hands on other people's shoulders. No one spoke.

The broadcast has finished.

There was silence for a few seconds.

Then, someone shouted first, and the courtyard erupted in chaos.

Some cried, some laughed, and some jumped together in a hug. The old workers squatted on the ground, wiping their eyes with their sleeves.

Young workers climbed onto the roof, waving a red flag they had somehow found.

Zhao Ping'an didn't move.

He stood there, watching those people.

Three years.

In October 1950, the first batch of soldiers crossed the Yalu River.

At that time, the Shenyang factory had just started mass production of the Type 59 rifle, and could only produce a few dozen vehicles a month.

The workers work in three shifts, and one of them collapsed from exhaustion next to the machine tool.

Currently, the monthly production capacity is 300 tanks, 150 airplanes, and 4,000 trucks.

For three years, the factory never stopped operating for a single day.

He turned around and walked back to his office.

There were two unfinished business plans on the table.

The title is: "Peacetime Transformation Plan for the Northeast Industrial Base".

National Industrial Classification Plan and Infrastructure Construction Plan

He sat down in the chair, picked up his pen, and continued writing.

Outside the window, the cheers continued.

August 28, 1953, early morning.

Li Changhe emerged from the tunnel. Dawn was approaching, and the east was beginning to lighten.

On the hillside, the soldiers stood, squatted, and sat in twos and threes.

Some people are smoking, some are daydreaming, and some are looking south.

He walked over to a young soldier and squatted down.

That soldier was a replacement last year; he was only nineteen years old.

When defending Shangganling, one man held the tunnel entrance for three days and three nights, repelling seven attacks.

"What are you thinking about?"

The young soldier did not turn back.

"I want to go home."

Li Changhe nodded.

"Soon."

The young soldier turned his head and looked at him.

"Commander, what do you plan to do after you get home?"

Li Changhe thought for a moment.

"Let's go see some old buddies."

"and then?"

"And then..." he said, watching the sun slowly rise in the east, "and then I started farming."

The young soldier was stunned for a moment.

"Farming?"

"Yes. My hometown was allocated land, but I haven't gone back to farm it. I heard that Minister Zhao gave us an tractor or something, a diesel-powered one. A regular tractor can plow 10 mu a day, but this tractor can plow 100 mu a day..."

The young soldier didn't ask any more questions.

The sun rose, shining on Hill 597.9, on the bomb craters, and on the people standing there.

Li Changhe stood up.

"Let's go, let's go down the mountain."

In August 1953, the first batch of troops began to return to China.

Li Changhe was in the second batch. In mid-September, he boarded a military train back to China.

As the train crossed the Yalu River, he leaned out and looked at the bridge.

He crossed this bridge three years ago.

It was dark then, and you couldn't see anything. Now, it's daytime, and the sunlight shines on the river, making the water ripple.

Inside the carriage, someone started singing.

It was that song, "Resist America, Aid Korea." As they sang it, everyone joined in.

Li Changhe didn't sing. He leaned against the carriage wall, listening to the song, watching the fields, villages, and cooking smoke outside the window, slowly receding into the distance.

At the end of September, he returned to his hometown in western Liaoning.

The village has changed. The dirt road has been replaced with a gravel road, and power lines have been installed.

A tractor was parked at the entrance of the village, and several children were watching it.

Someone told him that it was issued by higher authorities to support agricultural development.

He didn't go home. He went up the hillside first.

The grave of the third company commander is there.

The grave wasn't big, just a small mound of earth, with a wooden sign in front of it. Exposed to wind and rain, the words were barely legible.

He squatted down, burned paper money, and poured wine.

I squatted there for a long time.

He didn't say a word.

Finally, he stood up and saluted.

Then he turned around and went down the mountain.