The fighting drew to a close, punctuated by sporadic bursts of gunfire. The battlefield was choked with smoke, and the trenches were piled high with bodies strewn haphazardly.

In the tunnel, perhaps six or seven Viet Cong remained. I led my men to seal every exit. Standing at the mouth of the bunker, I shouted inside, "Yē bù sōng gōng yè, sōng kuān hóng dú bīng nèi!"

The other soldiers joined in the chorus: "Yē bù sōng gōng yè, sōng kuān hóng dú bīng nèi! Yē bù sōng gōng yè, sōng kuān hóng dú bīng nèi!” (Vietnamese: Put down your weapons and surrender, we will treat prisoners well. Frontline combat units were issued a field manual with essential Vietnamese phrases written out phonetically using Chinese characters, such as gāng dāi nǎi lái meaning ‘Hands up,’ and bù kù dāi yī nǎi lái meaning ‘Keep your hands raised and do not move.’ These were used for capturing or persuading the enemy to surrender, along with slogans explaining our policies to the Vietnamese populace. In fact, in Northern Vietnam, with its numerous ethnic groups, the official language was less widespread than spoken Chinese, and most Vietnamese soldiers understood some Chinese.)

The encircled Vietnamese answered from the depths of the tunnel with a full burst of machine-gun fire.

I threw my steel helmet to the ground and cursed, "Damn their ancestors, they still refuse to be taken alive." I turned to the soldiers standing behind me and barked the order: "Cluster grenades, flamethrowers—hit them all at once." Cluster grenades and flamethrowers were the most effective means against entrenched enemies in bunkers; first, heavy suppression with grenades, followed by elimination with the flamethrowers.

Bundles of grenades rained down into the tunnel. After a series of deafening explosions, the Chinese soldiers pressed the flamethrowers against the opening and sprayed relentlessly.

The smoke and the stench of burning flesh were blinding. Clutching my submachine gun, I led the charge into the tunnel; I needed to see for myself just how badly those scrawny little Vietnamese chicks had been incinerated.

Inside the tunnel, over a dozen charred Viet Cong bodies lay scattered; it was impossible now to tell if they had died from the blast or the fire.

I found a large bundle of unexploded cluster grenades tucked away at the very back. I quickly signaled the men to retreat, but it was too late. A dull, muffled explosion hit, the blast wave knocking me down. My vision went black, and I felt a thick layer of mud smeared over my eyes; I couldn't see anything.

I scrabbled desperately with my hands, overwhelmed by nameless panic. Just then, someone grabbed my wrist and said, "Comrade, wake up, were you having a nightmare?"

I opened my eyes and looked around. Two train attendants and all the passengers in the carriage were staring at me, their faces etched with concern. Only then did I realize I had been dreaming. I let out a long, shuddering breath, still shaken by the vivid terror of the imagined inferno.

To think I could have such a dream even while riding the train home—I’d made a complete fool of myself. I managed an awkward smile for everyone, probably the worst grimace I’d ever made; thankfully, there were no mirrors.

Seeing I was awake, the attendant informed me we were approaching the terminal station and that I should prepare to disembark. I nodded, gathered my meager luggage, and squeezed my way to the vestibule between the cars, settling onto my bags. I lit a cigarette and took several deep drags, my mind still dwelling on my comrades still on the front lines.

Wearing a uniform stripped of all insignia was awkward enough; I’d almost forgotten how to walk properly. How was I going to explain things to my father when I got back? If the old man found out the army had sent me home, he’d surely whip me bloody with his belt.

We reached the station in just over ten minutes. I walked around my home block a few times but didn't dare go in. I wandered aimlessly through the streets, calculating how to fabricate a story convincing enough to fool the old man.

The sky began to darken, settling into twilight. I ducked into a small restaurant to get something to eat. The menu shocked me; I hadn't eaten out in years. How expensive things had become! A plate of yú xiāng ròu sī (fish-fragrant shredded pork) was six yuan! It looked like my three thousand-plus yuan in separation pay would barely cover five hundred such dishes.

I ordered two bowls of rice and a plate of gōng bǎo jī dīng (Kung Pao chicken), plus a bottle of beer. The young waitress insisted on recommending the deep-fried prawns in oil. I refused steadfastly. She muttered a curse under her breath, rolled her eyes, and stalked off angrily to fetch my order.

I wasn't going to bother arguing with her. Ten years in the army—sweating, bleeding, facing death—and it all amounted to five hundred plates of yú xiāng ròu sī. The thought was almost comical, yet it brought tears to my eyes. But then I considered my comrades who sacrificed their lives in the snowy mountains, and I realized I had no right to feel discontented.

Just then, another patron entered from outside. He wore a pair of large, imported-style sunglasses that made him look quite fashionable for the times, so I glanced at him a second time.

The man noticed me too. He stared for a long moment, then walked over and sat down opposite me at my table.

I wondered what his game was. With so many empty tables around, why squeeze in here? Was he some thug looking for trouble? Damn it, that hit a raw nerve, and I braced myself, itching for a fight. But his look was oddly familiar. His face was largely obscured by the large shades, and I couldn’t place him immediately.

The man adjusted the large sunglasses perched on his nose and spoke to me: "Tiān wáng gài dì hǔ (Heavenly King covers the Tiger)."

I thought, That phrase sounds awfully familiar. So, I answered without thinking, "Bǎo tǎ zhèn hé yāo (Pagoda suppresses the River Demon)."

He asked again, "Why has your face turned red?"

I gave him a thumbs-up and replied, "Frustrated from not finding a wife."

"And why did it turn white?"

"Scared stiff by marrying a tigress."

We both lunged forward and embraced. I clapped him on the shoulder. "Little Fatty, you never thought the Main Force of the Red Army would make it back to Shaanxi, did you?"

Fatty was so moved he was near tears. "Old Hu, our various Red Armies have finally reunited in Northern Shaanxi!"

We had exchanged letters several times over the past few years, but separated by thousands of miles, we had never met. To run into each other in a restaurant right after I returned to the city—it was incredible luck.

Fatty’s father had held a much higher rank than mine, but unfortunately, during the Cultural Revolution, he couldn't withstand the persecution and died in the cowshed. A few years ago, after Fatty returned to the city, he found a job, but after more than a year, he got into a fight with his superior and became a dǎogǔ (a speculative private businessman). He specialized in bringing popular music cassette tapes from our region up north.

We hadn't seen each other for years, and we drank until our faces were flushed crimson. I completely forgot about trying to cook up a lie for my father. Back home, warmed by the alcohol, the truth spilled out about my discharge. To my surprise, he wasn't angry; in fact, he was quite pleased. I thought, This old man, the older he gets, the lower his revolutionary consciousness becomes; he’s happy his son won't have to go to the front lines anymore.

The Veterans Reinstatement Office arranged for me to be the Deputy Chief of Security at a food processing plant. I had spent too long in the army; I didn't want to return to that structured life of clocking in and out, so I declined the post. Instead, I partnered with Fatty to go into business up north.

Time passed quickly, and we were approaching the 1980s. We were both over thirty, but our business was getting bleaker and bleaker. Forget saving money for a wife; we were struggling just to afford food, frequently having to ask our families for help to cover immediate needs. By the standards of the Third Plenum, the nation had basically solved basic subsistence problems, but I felt like Fatty and I were still living in the pre-liberation era, exploited and oppressed, constantly hungry and cold.

The weather was fine that day, cloudless. We each wore a pair of sunglasses, dressed in bell-bottoms, and pushed a three-wheeled cart through the streets of Beijing. A plank was laid across the top, stacked high with cassette tapes. We used a battered cassette player connected to two shabby speakers, blaring the popular Taiwanese tunes of the day.

A bespectacled female student approached and browsed for a long time before asking, "Do you have any by Wang Jieshi and Xie Lisi?"

We had stocked those before, but they had sold out two days ago. Fatty grinned sheepishly and replied, "Oh, Sister, what era do you think it is? Still listening to them? How about some Teresa Teng, Qian Baihui, or Zhang Aijia? Take a few home, I swear on Chairman Mao, they sound so much better."

The student evidently judged Fatty to be untrustworthy, turned, and walked away.

Fatty cursed under his breath behind her: "What a stupid bitch, acting so prim. She probably wants to hear Golden Shuttle and Silver Shuttle [an older, more conservative song]. She looks like a shuttle herself."

I asked, "When did your accent change to a Beijing drawl? Why don’t you just speak standard Mandarin? Stop pretending to be a capital city local. Business here in Beijing is too tough. Let’s head to Xi'an in a few days."

Fatty opened his mouth to argue that his ancestors were from Beijing, but before he could, he suddenly pointed to one end of the street and shouted, "**! The industrial and commercial bureau is sweeping through! Run!"

We abandoned the cart and bolted, weaving through alleys until we found ourselves on a different street. I looked around—how had we unknowingly ended up at the Panjiayuan Antique Market?

This street was full of people buying and selling old things; some stalls even dealt in used Chairman Mao badges and the Little Red Book. There were piles of all sorts of things: ceramic pots and jars, old pocket watches, antique shoes that once held bound feet, heaps of copper coins, snuff bottles, various antique furniture, pipes, scrolls of calligraphy and painting, carved ink stones, brushes, old paper, tobacco pipes, cricket cages, porcelain, lacquerware, jewelry made of gold, silver, copper, tin, and jade—if it was old, they had almost everything.

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