77: Chapter 77: The First Battle on the Black Soil

July 15, 2017, 3:00 PM, main gate of the Shenyang Machine Tool factory.

Three buses bearing the Xingchen logo slowly drove into the factory grounds. Inside the buses, 200 Xingchen employees pressed against the windows, curiously eyeing this strange land that was about to become their new battlefield.

July in Shenyang should have been dry, but this year it was unusually sultry. The air clung to the skin like a damp cloth, and the horizon in the distance distorted in the heat waves. The scene at the factory was even more desolate than during the inspection—the poplars on both sides of the main road had curled leaves due to lack of water, and weeds were sprouting from the cracks in the concrete road, growing up to knee height.

The buses stopped in front of the office building.

According to the original plan, there should have been a brief welcome ceremony here. At least the deputy director in charge of production, the workshop directors, and the 127 technical experts confirmed to remain should have been sent to greet them.

But when the bus doors opened, only three people greeted them.

An office director in his fifties with thinning hair, accompanied by two young staff members who looked like fresh graduates. The three stood in the scorching July sun, their shirts already soaked with sweat.

Welcome, welcome. The office director stepped forward quickly, shaking the hand of the team leader, Zhao Tiezhu. I am Director Wang from the factory office. Well... the leaders had an urgent meeting temporarily and went to the city. They asked me to be responsible for receiving everyone.

A temporary meeting? Zhao Tiezhu's heart sank. He looked behind Director Wang—the empty square had nothing but dust kicked up by the heat waves.

Where are the technical experts? asked Li Feng, Production Operations Director of Xingchen Heavy Industry. Wasn't it said that 127 people were supposed to dock with us today?

Director Wang wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a stack of papers from his briefcase: This... these are the sick leave notes collected this morning. 113 of them. They were all issued by the doctor, saying it's too hot, they have heatstroke, and need to rest.

113 sick leave notes.

Li Feng took the stack of papers and flipped through them. The reasons were varied: heatstroke, gastroenteritis, chronic arthritis flare-ups, and even caring for an elderly mother at home. But all the leave notes had one thing in common—they were all issued on the same day and signed by the same doctor from the factory clinic.

What about the remaining 14? Zhao Tiezhu asked.

They are waiting in the workshop, Director Wang pointed to the distant factory building. They are mainly young people; the Old Master Craftsmen... basically all asked for leave.

The atmosphere froze instantly. Someone in the Xingchen team cursed under their breath.

Zhao Tiezhu took a deep breath and turned to the employees who had just gotten off the bus: Everyone get off first and move your luggage to the dormitory. The original docking meeting is cancelled. One hour later, all team leaders come to my room for a meeting.

He turned to Director Wang, his tone calm but firm: Please take us to the dormitory. Also, please tell all the Old Master Craftsmen who asked for leave—the Xingchen team has officially moved in starting today. We will wait for them in the assembly workshop office. Whenever they feel better, they can come to work. No rush.

The words were polite, but the subtext was clear: You can run, but you can't hide.

The dormitory was an old tube-style building built in the 1980s. There was no air conditioning, only creaking ceiling fans. The white plaster on the walls had peeled off, revealing the red bricks underneath. The restroom was public, at the end of the hallway.

When young engineer Zhang Rui opened the door to the room assigned to him, a wave of heat mixed with a musty smell rushed towards him. As a 28-year-old master's graduate from the Department of Precision Instruments at Tsinghua University, he lived in an apartment provided by the company in Guancheng—fully furnished, central air conditioning, twenty-four-hour hot water.

He smiled bitterly and dragged his suitcase into the room. His roommate was Engineer Liu from the Quality Control Department, forty-five years old, who was wiping the dust off the bed board with a rag.

Little Zhang, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Engineer Liu was open-minded. When I was young, I interned at the Shanxi Mining Machinery Factory, and the conditions were much worse than this.

After a simple settlement, at four in the afternoon, the technical team entered the workshop.

The real test was just beginning.

The assembly workshop was built in 2005 and was considered a modern factory building at the time. However, due to a lack of maintenance for twelve years, the insulation layer on the roof had aged and failed. The July sun shone directly on the iron roof, and the indoor temperature was even higher than outside.

Zhang Rui scanned the area with an infrared thermometer: the surface temperature of the workbench was 42°C, the surface of the machine tool guide rail was 47°C, and the hottest part was the electrical control cabinet of that CNC milling machine—51°C. The working environment requirement for precision machine tools is 20°C ± 2°C.

How can we work like this? a young engineer couldn't help but complain.

Li Feng frowned: Try it first. Set up our constant temperature testing equipment and see how much the accuracy is actually affected.

The Xingchen team brought a full set of digital testing instruments. Zhang Rui and two colleagues got busy next to a CNC milling machine waiting to be retrofitted: installing laser interferometers, ballbar testers, and temperature sensor arrays.

At seven in the evening, the first batch of data came out.

When Zhang Rui handed the report to Zhao Tiezhu, his hands were trembling—not from fatigue, but from shock.

Director Zhao, all three CNC milling machines prepared for modification have shown accuracy drift. His voice was dry. The maximum drift on the X-axis is 0.018 mm, the Y-axis is 0.015 mm, and the Z-axis is 0.012 mm. And... the amount of drift is constantly changing with temperature fluctuations.

Zhao Tiezhu stared at the report: The reason?

Thermal expansion. Zhang Rui pulled up the temperature curve. The workshop temperature fluctuated by 10°C, from 32°C at 8 AM to 42°C at 3 PM. The thermal expansion coefficient of cast iron is 11 × 10^-6/°C. This machine tool bed is 3 meters long, and a 10°C temperature change results in an elongation of 0.33 mm. Although there is compensation in the design, but—

He pointed to the structural diagram of the machine tool: The problem is that the thermal expansion is uneven. Sunlight shines in from the west window, making the west side of the machine tool 4°C hotter than the east side, causing the bed to twist. Our CNC system has a temperature compensation function, but it requires inputting material parameters and temperature sensor data, and this machine tool...

Zhang Rui smiled bitterly: The temperature sensor broke ten years ago, and no one repaired it. Material parameters? Even the manual can't be found.

Worse was yet to come.

On the morning of July 16, Zhang Rui tried to manually calibrate the machine tool. He opened the maintenance interface of the CNC system and entered the standard compensation parameters—the system prompted that the original factory password was required.

What is the password? he asked the young Shenyang technician accompanying him.

The technician shook his head: I don't know. It used to be adjusted by Germany engineers, and they never told us the password. After the cooperation ended, no one knew it anymore.

Zhang Rui tried several common passwords, all of which were wrong. The system prompted: two more attempts left; if they fail, the maintenance function will be locked.

He didn't dare to try again.

Under the shade of trees on the west side of the workshop, seven or eight Old Master Craftsmen sat on small stools, watching from afar. They held large tea mugs in their hands, drinking tea slowly, occasionally chatting in low voices.

Zhang Rui vaguely heard a few sentences drifting over:

The little dolls from the south think machines are like mobile phones, and just poking the screen will make them work?

That instrument is fancy, beeping non-stop, but is it useful?

High temperature? We've been working for decades, which day wasn't the temperature high? Machines have tempers; people have to go along with their tempers.

The voice was not loud, but it was particularly harsh in the quiet workshop.

Zhang Rui felt his face burning. Not from the heat, but from shame. He studied cutting-edge precision instruments at Tsinghua, his graduation thesis was on nanometer-level positioning control, and after joining Xingchen, he participated in the research and development of five-axis machine tools. But now, facing this low-end three-axis milling machine, he was helpless.

At 3:00 PM, the workshop temperature climbed to 43°C. The grating ruler of that CNC milling machine alarmed again—temperature too high, automatic shutdown protection.

The Old Master Craftsmen under the tree shade stood up, patted their butts, and prepared to get off work.

Passing by the Xingchen team, an Old Master Craftsman with gray hair stopped and glanced at Zhang Rui: Young man, you can't rush. This old fellow is like a person; it gets temperamental when it's hot. You have to coax it.

He paused: But that coaxing method of yours, it won't listen.

After speaking, he walked away swaying.

At 8:00 PM on July 16, the lights were still on in the assembly workshop lounge.

It was called a lounge, but it was actually a small room partitioned with plywood in the corner of the workshop. Two old wooden tables, a few plastic stools, and yellowed safety production posters on the wall. Playing cards were scattered on the table, and seven Old Master Craftsmen sat around, playing Upgrade.

The door was pushed open.

Zhao Tiezhu walked in, carrying a box of Laolongkou Baijiu in his hand, and tucked a few oil-paper bags under his arm—braised beef, pig head meat, and peanuts just bought from a deli outside the factory.

Everyone was stunned.

The playing cards stopped in mid-air. Under the light, Zhao Tiezhu saw seven faces—the youngest was over fifty, and the oldest looked nearly sixty. Everyone had thick calluses on their hands, and their knuckles were large; those were the marks left by long-term operation of wrenches and handles.

Teachers, sorry to bother you. Zhao Tiezhu put the wine and food on the table, I am Zhao Tiezhu, from the factory in Guancheng. In terms of age, you are my big brothers; in terms of craftsmanship, you are my teachers. Let's not talk about work tonight, just getting to know each other, and having a couple of drinks with you teachers.

He opened the wine box, took out two bottles of Baijiu, and unscrewed the caps. The strong aroma of the liquor instantly filled the room.

The eldest Old Master Craftsman—Ma Zhendong, fifty-eight years old, an eighth-grade bench worker, one of the best craftsmen in the workshop—put down the cards in his hand and squinted at Zhao Tiezhu: Director Zhao, what are you playing at?

"No ulterior motives, just drinking." Zhao Tiezhu took out disposable plastic cups, poured seven glasses of liquor, and then filled one for himself. The amber liquid swirled in the cups.

He raised his glass: "The first glass, I toast to you, Masters. Thank you for guarding these machines and this factory for decades, day in and day out."

After saying that, he downed it in one gulp.

The 52% ABV baijiu burned down his throat like a line of fire. Zhao Tiezhu resisted the urge to cough and showed the bottom of his glass to everyone.

Ma Zhendong stared at him for a few seconds, then slowly picked up his glass: "Mr. Zhao is straightforward." He also finished his drink.

The other six Old Master Craftsmen looked at each other and raised their glasses one after another.

With the first glass down, the atmosphere loosened slightly.

Zhao Tiezhu poured the second round: "The second glass is my apology. We've been here for a few days without consulting you Masters beforehand, blindly fumbling around and causing trouble for everyone."

Downed again.

Ma Zhendong didn't speak this time, just followed suit and finished his drink. But the wariness in his eyes had lessened.

For the third glass, Zhao Tiezhu said: "The third glass is for some heartfelt words. We didn't come here to be saviors; we came to be students. The South has its methods, and the North has its experience. How to twist these two strands into one rope—I can't figure it out, so I must ask for your guidance, Masters."

Three glasses, five minutes, all finished.

Zhao Tiezhu had an average tolerance for alcohol, and his cheeks were already burning. But his eyes remained clear as he looked at Ma Zhendong: "Master Ma, I know you have grudges in your hearts. When the people from Germany came the year before last, they said your equipment was scrap metal; last year when the experts from Beijing came, they said your people were a burden. Now that we're here, you must be thinking: 'These Southerners, can they be any different?'"

Ma Zhendong didn't speak, but his hand gripping the glass tightened.

"I can't guarantee we're completely different," Zhao Tiezhu said honestly, "because we also have our rules—we need assessments, data, and efficiency. These might make everyone uncomfortable. But I can guarantee one thing—"

He paused, then said word by word: "Respect. Respect for your craftsmanship, respect for your experience, and respect for the better part of your lives you've spent in this factory."

The break room went quiet. Only the creaking sound of the ceiling fan remained.

After a long while, Ma Zhendong spoke, his voice hoarse: "Mr. Zhao, you just said you came here to be a student?"

"Yes."

"Then let me ask you a question." Ma Zhendong pointed to the three broken CNC milling machines in the workshop outside the window, "For those three machines, do your people have a solution?"

Zhao Tiezhu was frank: "Not for the moment. The CNC system passwords are lost, the temperature compensation parameters are unknown, and the thermal deformation patterns are unclear."

Ma Zhendong was silent for a long while: "We have a way. But it has to be done our way—no software, no passwords, no beeping instruments of yours. Use your hands, your ears, your eyes, and thirty years of intuition. You young people, do you believe it?"

This question carried a lot of weight.

To believe meant putting aside the digitalization, standardization, and scientific methods that Xingchen Heavy Industry took pride in, and returning to the most primitive "Old Master Craftsman experience."

To not believe meant continuing the stalemate.

Zhao Tiezhu hardly hesitated: "I believe it. How could I not? Master Ma, you lead the way, and I will follow and learn."

At ten in the evening, the workshop was brightly lit.

Around the three CNC milling machines, over a dozen people gathered—the seven Old Master Craftsmen, plus Zhao Tiezhu and a few young engineers from Xingchen Heavy Industry. Zhang Rui was among them, holding a notebook, ready to take notes.

Ma Zhendong changed into his work clothes. He first had people open all the windows around the machine tools for ventilation, and then asked his apprentice to bring a few buckets of cold water and splash it on the floor near the machine tools. "Cool it down, let the machines catch their breath."

Then he started working.

No computers, no software, and not even many measuring instruments—only the most basic tools like dial indicators, feeler gauges, and spirit levels.

Ma Zhendong first let the machine tools run idle for half an hour. "Let it stretch its muscles and warm up," he explained. "Just like a person, if you're suddenly asked to do heavy work without warming up, you'll get cramps."

Half an hour later, he asked his apprentice to operate the machine tool to make a simple linear cutting test piece. He himself leaned over the machine tool, his ear almost pressed against the guide rail, listening with his eyes closed.

The sound of cutting echoed in the workshop.

"Stop." Ma Zhendong suddenly raised his hand.

The machine stopped. He pointed to the cut surface: "Did you hear it? When it reached this point, the sound changed—it vibrated. This means there's a slight depression in the guide rail at this position."

Zhang Rui tested it with a laser interferometer—sure enough, at the 650-millimeter position on the X-axis, the guide rail's straightness deviation was 0.008 millimeters.

"How did you hear that?" Zhang Rui was shocked.

Ma Zhendong smiled: "After doing this for over thirty years, listening for eight hours a day, even a deaf person could tell roughly what's wrong."

He continued the debugging. This time it was temperature compensation.

"That software of yours calculates theoretical values," Ma Zhendong said while measuring the temperature at different positions of the machine bed with a dial indicator. "The thermal expansion coefficient of cast iron is 11×10^-6, that's correct. But that's a number from a textbook. In reality, the composition of each machine tool casting is different, the cooling speed during casting is different, and the internal stress is different—its 'temperament' is different."

He asked his apprentice to record the data: "East side bed foot, current temperature 38.2°C; west side bed foot, 41.6°C. A difference of 3.4 degrees. Theoretically, the length difference between east and west should be 0.112 millimeters. But in reality—"

Ma Zhendong measured the actual deformation of the machine bed with a specially made long-rod micrometer: "It's 0.096 millimeters. Why? Because a section of the guide rail on the west side was replaced last year, and residual stress was generated during welding, making that section of the material 'harder,' so the expansion is smaller."

Zhang Rui recorded rapidly. These details were things that no textbook or simulation software could ever provide.

At one in the morning, the first machine tool's precision was restored—the X/Y/Z three-axis positioning accuracy all reached within 0.005 millimeters, meeting the renovation requirements.

Zhao Tiezhu had someone buy late-night snacks: piping hot wontons, steamed buns, and tea eggs. Everyone sat around the machine tools, eating amidst the smell of machine oil in the workshop.

Ma Zhendong held his bowl of wontons and said to Zhao Tiezhu: "Mr. Zhao, the fact that you could come tonight, drink those three glasses of liquor, and trust us old folks—I toast to you."

Zhao Tiezhu had already vomited twice—the baijiu had a strong kick, and combined with exhaustion, he had run outside the workshop and vomited his guts out. But at this moment, he smiled and raised his wonton soup: "Using soup instead of liquor. Master Ma, it's my turn to toast you. What you taught tonight is a treasure that no amount of money can buy."

At three in the morning, the second machine tool was fixed.

At four in the morning, the third one entered final debugging.

Ma Zhendong had been working continuously for eight hours, his eyes bloodshot, but his spirits were getting better and better. While adjusting the screws, he said to the young engineers watching: "Machines are like people; you have to understand them. Wherever it's uncomfortable, it will tell you—through sound, through vibration, through the work it produces. Those instruments of yours are good, but instruments are dead, while people are alive."

At six in the morning, when the first ray of morning light shone into the workshop, the accuracy report for the third machine tool came out: all met the standards.

Ma Zhendong straightened his back and let out a long sigh of relief. He looked at Zhao Tiezhu, and the eyes of this fifty-eight-year-old Old Master Craftsman suddenly turned red.

"Mr. Zhao, this machine... was bought in 2008 when the factory was at its best." His voice was a bit choked up, "At that time we said, with this, we could also do precision work. But later... the factory went downhill, and this machine was abandoned. Every day I came to work, watching it rust, it felt like my heart was being cut with a knife."

He wiped his face: "Today, it has come back to life."

Zhao Tiezhu grasped Ma Zhendong's hand: "Master Ma, this is just the beginning. In the future, we will bring more machines back to life and bring this factory back to life."

The sun had fully risen.

Outside the workshop, workers arriving for their shifts walked into the factory area one after another. They were surprised to find that the lights in the assembly workshop had been on all night, and inside the workshop, the young people from the South and the local Old Master Craftsmen were standing shoulder to shoulder, facing the three machine tools that had restored their precision, wearing tired but radiant smiles.

Under the shade of the trees, a few more Old Master Craftsmen gathered. This time they didn't watch from afar, but walked into the workshop.

"Old Ma, is it really fixed?"

"Mr. Zhao, my boring machine also has some problems, could you help take a look?"

"Engineer Zhang, about that temperature sensor you mentioned last night, I think there are still a few spare parts in our factory warehouse..."

The barrier still existed, but the ice had begun to melt.

And at the workshop entrance, Lin Wan, who had flown in overnight from Shenzhen, watched this scene quietly. In her hand, she held the draft of the "Three Red Lines" she had just drawn up, but at this moment she felt—some things are more important than written rules.

It was respect, it was trust, it was two generations and two cultures finding a common language amidst the roar of the machine tools.

The first battle on the black soil, amidst the scorching heat and strong liquor, had arduously won its first hill.

And the true integration had only just begun.