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

In April, Shenyang was still chilly.

After leaving the train station, Zhao Ping'an didn't go to the guesthouse but had his car driven directly to the Provincial Administrative Office. Tea was already prepared in the office of Secretary Chen, the Provincial Administrative Head of Liaoning Province.

"Comrade Ping'an, I heard about your meeting with Engineer Zhou in Beiping." Secretary Chen stood up to greet you, and the two shook hands. "That new gun, can it really produce 20,000 per month?"

"Reporting to Secretary, yes, I can." Zhao Ping'an sat down on the sofa, took the teacup, and said, "But I'm not here today to talk about guns."

Secretary Chen raised an eyebrow: "Oh?"

Zhao Pingan took a document out of his briefcase. It wasn't a plan for the gun factory, but a map of the three northeastern provinces. Large areas were circled in red on the map—not cities, not mining areas, but vast plains and wastelands.

"I want to farm," Zhao Ping'an said.

Secretary Chen paused for a moment, then smiled.

The two had been working together for more than two months and were already familiar with each other. In addition, Zhao Ping'an was a person who could get all kinds of advanced equipment and was wholeheartedly devoted to the country. What administrative leader wouldn't like him?

So Secretary Chen joked, "Farming? Comrade Ping An, did I not understand what you meant?"

You, a centrally appointed director and advisor in industry, want to switch careers and become a farmer?

"It's not about changing careers." Zhao Ping'an spread the map out on the coffee table, pointing to the red circles with his finger.

"These places, like the Songliao Plain and the Sanjiang Plain, have an average black soil layer thickness of over one meter, making them some of the most fertile lands in China. But now they're wasteland. Why?"

"There are few people." Secretary Chen said bluntly, "The Northeast had just been liberated and the population was less than 30 million."

So much land, and nobody's farming it. And most importantly, the land you're referring to needs to be reclaimed.

"What if we don't need so many people? What if I have a way?" Zhao Ping'an took out a few more photos from his bag and pushed them in front of Secretary Chen.

The photos show strange machinery. There are large, tracked machines with huge plows in front; wheeled carts pulling a row of discs behind; and things with long spray nozzles, resembling some kind of bizarre insect.

"This is..." Secretary Chen picked up a photograph and examined it carefully.

"Tractors," Zhao Ping'an said. "Wheel tractors, tracked tractors, combine harvesters, seeders, fertilizer applicators. A complete set of modern agricultural machinery."

He then pulled out another stack of documents: "This is my plan. We will mobilize 100,000 laborers to reclaim wasteland. We will not use traditional human plows and oxen, but these machines."

Secretary Chen quickly flipped through the documents.

The plan is very detailed: the source of machinery, personnel composition, land selection, crop planning, time schedule... every aspect has been taken into consideration.

"Where will these 100,000 laborers come from?" Secretary Chen asked the crucial question.

"I came from the military," Zhao Ping'an said.

"Wounded soldiers, demobilized soldiers who need to be transferred to civilian jobs, and new recruits who have just enlisted."

I've already reported this to Engineer Zhou, and he's agreed.

Secretary Chen raised his head, a glint of light flashing in his eyes.

Wounded soldiers. This problem had plagued the base areas and liberated areas for many years.

War means bloodshed. What happens when you get injured? Minor injuries are manageable, but for those who are seriously injured and disabled, many places can't accommodate them. All we can do is give them some travel expenses to go home.

But what can you do at home? With one leg and one arm missing, you're practically useless in the countryside.

"You mean..." Secretary Chen's voice changed slightly.

"Even someone with one leg missing can drive a tractor. Tractors have a cab, and you can operate them by hand."

"Even those who are missing an arm can try operating agricultural equipment or doing auxiliary work such as sowing and fertilizing. Even those who have lost both hands can still do scheduling and management work," Zhao Ping'an said calmly. "They shed blood for the country, and the country should give them a way to survive and a way out."

Secretary Chen remained silent for a long while, then asked, "What do you need?"

"The wasteland, and your support," Zhao Ping'an said. "I've prepared all the machinery, fuel, seeds, fertilizer, and pesticides. Zhou has already arranged the personnel transfer. As for the local area, as long as they don't interfere with our land reclamation or try to take our land, that's fine."

"Grab land?" Secretary Chen laughed. "Those are all wastelands, overgrown with weeds taller than a person, and teeming with wolves and bears. I'd be more than happy to have you develop them."

He walked back to his desk and picked up a pen:

"I'll approve the documents for you. Within Liaoning Province, you can use any wasteland you fancy."

Where local cooperation is needed, I have instructed all levels of government to provide full support. There is only one requirement—”

Secretary Chen looked at Zhao Ping'an and said, "Let me see the yield during the autumn harvest."

Two days later, the first group of people arrived in Shenyang.

The people getting off at the train station platform were somewhat unusual.

They were wearing military uniforms, but many of them had empty sleeves or trouser legs. Some were using crutches, some were missing ears, and some had gruesome scars on their faces.

But they marched in perfect unison.

Zhao Ping'an stood on the platform, looking at the soldiers who had gathered from various units.

The statistics show that there are 3,000 people, all of whom are severely disabled but can take care of themselves.

"Comrades," Zhao Ping'an's voice echoed across the platform without using a loudspeaker, "I am Zhao Ping'an. From today onwards, you are no longer wounded, no longer a burden. You are the builders of the first batch of mechanized farms in New China."

There was some commotion in the crowd.

"I know what you're thinking," Zhao Ping'an continued. "You went to war as a soldier, and now you're crippled, useless, unable to even farm when you get home. But let me tell you—"

He pointed outside the platform, where a row of strange machines stood. Twenty tracked tractors, their steel bodies gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

"Those are tractors. One person, one tractor, can plow fifty acres a day. Fifty acres is enough for the people of a village to work for three days."

"You're missing a leg? No problem, the tractor only has two pedals, you can step on them with your heels."

"Missing an arm? No problem, the main controls are on the right, you can use your left hand for assistance."

"Even if you lose both your hands—" Zhao Ping'an paused, "I still have positions for you. Scheduling, statistics, quality inspection, training... Mechanized farms need more than just drivers; they need managers too."

The crowd fell completely silent. Everyone stared at the steel machinery, and at Zhao Ping'an.

"Now, those who want to drive a tractor, step forward."

Three seconds later, the first soldier, leaning on his cane, took a step forward. His right leg was gone from the knee down.

Then came the second, the third... more than three hundred people stepped forward.

Zhao Ping'an nodded: "Okay. Now, everyone get on the trucks and head to the training ground. I'll teach you how to drive a tractor in three days. After that, we'll go clear land."