Chapter 73
In May 1961, the positions along the XX River in Province D were still drenched in thawed mud. The wind, swirling with ice from the XX River, lashed the trenches like handfuls of broken glass. Gravel mixed with thawed snow, creating a half-foot-deep slush in the trenches, calf-deep enough to step into. Xiao Ming crouched behind his bunker, his trousers' knees already drenched in mud, the frozen fabric rubbing painfully against his skin. He fished out his camera, its metal frame clung to a fine layer of water—the morning dew, mixed with the black dust kicked up by the previous night's artillery fire, leaving mottled marks on the camera's frame, sharper than any decoration. In the distance, through the lens, he could see the birch forests of Soviet Russia, their bare branches trembling like wire in the wind.
When I was a child, listening to my grandfather recount the Liaoshen Campaign, he always said that in the freezing cold of -40 degrees Celsius, the sound of gunfire could shatter the ice between bones. He believed it then, but it wasn't until now, hearing the muffled groans of the wounded being carried through the trenches, that he understood the true cruelty wasn't in the sound. It was in the canteens of boiled water, half frozen with a thin layer of ice, that flew off the canteens; it was in the lingering bloodstains on the first aid kits, frozen into dark red icing in the cold wind, clinging to the stretcher and impossible to tear apart.
Arriving at the battlefield early that morning, the smoke and sleet of gunpowder made it impossible to open one's eyes. My sister-in-law, Wang Xuemei, hurried over, carrying a medical kit wider than she was. The hem of her white coat was stained with frozen soil, evidently having trotted across the crust of ice from the makeshift first aid station. "Don't keep the lens cap on all the time." She reached up to help him straighten his tilted hat brim, her fingertips carrying the coolness of disinfectant, like the warmth of a mother rubbing his hair. "They must see what they need to see—let Jiang see it too."
Suddenly, gunfire rang out nearby. Her figure, turning and running toward the emergency station, rose and fell in the snow, the hem of her white coat fluttering like a bird's hastily flapping wings. Xiaoming watched the white disappear behind the oak trees bent by the snow, and suddenly understood why his elder brother had asked his sister-in-law to come to the front line—the operating table here, like his camera, was a boundary marker standing on the border.
He was loading new film into his camera, his fingertips rubbing against the cold metal spool when he heard a rustling noise behind him. A head popped out from the corner of the trench, a frozen birch leaf hanging from the brim of his military cap, revealing a childish face that looked no older than fifteen or sixteen.
"Comrade reporter, can your camera really capture that blockhouse?" The soldier, clutching a rifle with a polished butt, was rubbing frozen mud against the soles of his boots. "Our squad leader said the pictures in the city's illustrated magazines are so bright they could be sent back to the border."
Xiao Ming handed him the camera. The viewfinder reflected the bombed-out border checkpoint in the distance. A half-painted red slogan, "Defend the Motherland," still hung on the broken wall, its corners trembling in the wind. "Not only can we take photos, but we can also let people thousands of miles away see this wall." He paused, his Adam's apple rolling. "See why we're defending this bank of the XX River."
The soldier's eyes suddenly welled up. He poked his rifle into the frozen soil, the tip piercing the ice half an inch. "My family used to grow soybeans on this side of the river, and we even had an old elm tree in the yard." He stared down at the mud on the soles of his boots, his voice muffled as if buried in a snowdrift. "The day the shells fell, my father was loading bean cakes onto the wagon... The shaft broke, and the beans scattered in the snow, rolling all over the ground, black and white."
The distant artillery fire suddenly intensified, and ice and dirt rustled down on their shoulders. The soldier yanked Xiaoming back behind cover, but he himself leaned halfway out to peer, his knuckles clenching the handguard of his rifle until they turned white. "Don't look!" As Xiaoming pulled him back, he saw a new scar behind his ear, a thin red line stained with a scab of blood.
"I'm not afraid." The soldier stiffened his neck, his Adam's apple rolling up and down, his eyes brightening surprisingly from beneath his military cap. "Our platoon leader said, if we take a few more shells now, the kids in our village won't have to hide in air-raid shelters in the ice and snow in the future." He suddenly pointed eastward, where the clouds were being torn apart by the rising sun. Golden light streamed down, casting a warm hue on the frozen river. "I've dreamed of peace, of soybeans growing waist-deep in the fields, of children chasing wild ducks on the riverbank without having to listen to the sound of artillery fire."
Xiao Ming recalled the letters he'd read to the illiterate soldiers before leaving. One soldier's sister had drawn a crooked sun in the letter, tracing over it with a pencil: "Wait for brother to come back and take a picture of the river opening." He adjusted the focus, capturing the crevices in the clouds in the morning light. The light in the viewfinder was blinding. "We'll wait. Once we've driven the enemy away, we can replant your elm trees, and we can even erect a boundary marker on the riverbank with the inscription 'This is China.'"
"Is that really possible?" The soldier's eyes shone like stars soaked in dew. He suddenly pulled out a paper package wrapped in three layers of coarse cloth from his bosom and carefully opened it. Inside was half a frozen cornbread, with a fine layer of frost on the edges. "I'm keeping this in my pocket, thinking that when peace comes, I can eat it with freshly cooked soybeans. My mother said that fresh beans paired with hot cornbread are so fragrant that they reach deep into your heart."
The artillery fire subsided for a moment, and a sparse bird song filled the battlefield, crisp and clear, like the sound of an ice pick being struck in the distance. Xiao Ming pressed the shutter, and with a soft click, the image of the soldier holding the paper bag was frozen on the film—that mud-stained hand seemed to be holding not a steamed bun, but an entire, heavy spring.
"Of course!" He patted the soldier's shoulder, his fingertips touching the other's thin shoulder blade, as if touching a growing poplar. "Because what we are defending is not a battlefield, but the future bean fields, the fishing nets in the hands of the children."
The soldier rewrapped the steamed bread and tucked it back into his arms. He grabbed the rifle beside him, the butt of the rifle making a crisp sound on the frozen ground. "Hmm!" He nodded vigorously, the sound echoing through the empty trench, bouncing off the ice and back again. "Our squad leader said, as long as there's one man standing by this river, victory is not a dream!"
The wind swept through the trenches, carrying the faint fragrance of distant dazi flowers, which, even with the smell of gunpowder, was surprisingly not pungent. Xiaoming stared at the gradually clearing image in his camera, and suddenly felt that the condensed dew and mottled mud marks had become the most solid medals—they proved that on this frozen land, someone was using a camera and a rifle to support the coming peace.
This war came and went as quickly as the spring flood on the XX River, retreating quietly by the end of May. Like two bears testing each other's fangs, each side withdrew before truly revealing its true cards.
At the end of May, along the banks of the XX River, the thawing breeze, laden with moisture, blew across the troops, ready for battle. Xiao Ming stood in the ranks, three shades darker than when he arrived, his cheekbones protruding enough to pierce his military cap. His left arm was in a sling, a stark contrast to his spirited demeanor. The camera slung around his neck had long lost its former luster. The metal casing was dented, and a chip was chipped off the edge of the lens, the mark left when he had smashed it at an oncoming enemy—now a prestigious medal.
"Yes, look this way!" He raised the camera high with his uninjured right hand, his voice louder than the roar of a cannon. "Think about those guys who crossed the river. We've driven them back to their own frozen land!"
The soldiers burst into laughter, their faces fading a bit. Some deliberately puffed out their chests, others made fists toward the camera. Xiao Ming pressed the shutter button with one hand, the click ringing crisply in the river breeze. Who would have thought that someone who, when first deployed, would need three layers of velvet to change film would now be able to capture images more steadily than anyone else, holding a camera with one hand.
"We won!" he shouted into the camera, his voice tinged with tears, then smiled and wiped his face. This battle had taught him that a scratched camera can be repaired, a broken lens can be replaced, but those young faces, forever closed in the lens, can never be seen again. What is most precious? Not the shiny camera body, but witnessing the river bloom in spring, the laughter of children chasing wild ducks.
The team was about to retreat. While cleaning up the battlefield, Xiaoming ran into a familiar figure near the former bunker. The soldier was squatting in the mud, digging something in the dirt with his right hand. A scar ran from his left brow to his jaw, like a dark red earthworm crawling across his face. It must have been the mark left by the last raid.
"Comrade reporter!" The soldier looked up and saw him. His scar stretched as he grinned, making the wound look even more hideous. But his eyes were as bright as ice crystals melted by the sun. "I found it!"
He pulled a tightly wrapped oil-paper package from his bosom and peeled back the layers, revealing half a frozen, hard cornbread, its edges crusted with a blackened crust of ice. "I've been carrying it all the way here, thinking I'll bury it here myself." The soldier grasped the cornbread between his cracked fingers and gently placed it in the hole he'd dug. "My mother said, burying good things in black soil will guarantee a good harvest next year."
Xiao Ming squatted down and watched him fill the pit with handfuls of black soil. The dirt fell on the bunk bed, like a thick quilt covering it. "What can grow from this?" he teased him.
"It can grow peace," the soldier said earnestly, patting the soil with his palm. "It can grow wheat that doesn't have to hide from artillery shells, and it can grow children who can run on the riverbank." He suddenly turned toward the other side of the XX River, where the birch forests appeared gray in the twilight. "I hope the next war never comes."
The wind carried his voice across the river, like a fallen birch leaf, lightly landing on the melting ice, swirling and drifting off into the distance. Xiao Ming raised his camera and pressed the shutter button with one hand, capturing the soldier's back as he lowered his head to caress the fresh soil, along with the trees on the opposite bank and the frozen ground beneath his feet. This photo should be called "Seeds."
During the days of interrogation, he practiced changing film one-handed against the wall. When he finally returned to the army in early June, the indelible black dirt still clung to his fingernails. He opened the door to his brother's house, and two small figures rushed over, stirring up a gust of wind.
"Uncle, you're back! Where's my mom?" Xiaonuo's pigtails brushed against his bandages, and he quickly shrank back, carefully touching the fabric, "Does it hurt?"
Xiao Yuji tugged at his uninjured arm and sighed like a grown-up, "Thank you for your hard work, uncle. Let me give you a shoulder massage. I've just learned this technique!"
Xiao Ming squatted down, letting them torment him. Xiao Nuo's fingertips were soft, but Xiao Yuji's strength was full of seriousness. Looking at the two smiling faces turned up, he suddenly remembered the red scar in the trench, the blood-stained white coat on the operating table, and his throat tightened as if it had been soaked in river water. Aren't these little faces, untouched by the smoke of gunpowder, what they fought so hard to protect?
"Your mother is still busy at the hospital." He ruffled the two children's hair. "There are many wounded on the battlefield. Your mother and the others have to save them before they can return."
The children nodded sensibly. Xiao Nuo took out a piece of candy from his pocket, peeled off the paper and put it in his mouth: "Give it to my uncle to make him sweet. Mom said that sweet things can relieve pain."
When Xiao Li pushed the door open that night, he saw Xiao Ming saluting the wall, his arm bandaged with red marks. He walked over and patted his brother's back, the calloused palm rubbing against his thin shoulder blade. "It's good to be back."
"Yeah!" Xiao Ming nodded heavily, the sweet taste of the fruit candy still on the tip of his tongue, swallowed with tears, "Brother, it's great to be alive."
The moonlight from the window fell on the camera's scars, like a layer of scattered silver. Xiao Ming touched the dents on the body of the camera and suddenly remembered what his sister-in-law Wang Xuemei had said: "The lens should be cleaned. There will be many bright things to shoot in the future."
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