82: Chapter 83 The revolution has not yet succeeded; comrades must continue to strive.

Duncan's radish sprouts had come up.

Tender green and about two inches high, they poked crookedly out of the black soil that had been turned over three times, looking like a row of new recruits who hadn't learned how to stand in line yet.

Duncan squatted by the furrow, staring at those green leaves for a full five minutes.

Mud was smeared over half his face, and he was missing a front tooth; when he grinned, he looked like a forty-year-old groundhog.

“They grew.”

He turned his head to speak to the young soldier beside him—the seventeen or eighteen-year-old boy who had taught him how to turn the soil.

The young soldier didn't understand English, but seeing Duncan pointing at the green sprouts in the field, he smiled along.

The two of them squatted there, the son of a Leeds worker and a boy soldier from a mountain valley in Sichuan; though they shared no common language, they simply beamed foolishly at a row of radish sprouts.

Tony passed by after finishing carrying firewood and paused for a moment.

His foot injury was about seventy to eighty percent healed, and the administrator had assigned him light physical labor. Every day he carried firewood and washed dishes, not saying much. He looked at Duncan's back as he squatted in the mud and wanted to say something, but the words didn't come out.

A Brit, planting radishes in a Chinese POW camp.

And he actually grew them.

He shook his head and continued walking.

Sounds came from the direction of the drill ground.

Several American POWs were sitting in a circle on stones, with a Volunteer Army Communication Runner standing in the middle.

He was in his early twenties, thin as a bamboo pole, wearing glasses with frames reinforced by three loops of wire. A fountain pen was clipped to his chest, likely the most expensive thing he owned.

He was teaching English.

No—he was teaching Chinese.

Tony only heard clearly as he drew closer. The Communication Runner spoke slowly, every English word carrying an accent so thick it was inseparable.

“ni-hao,” “xie-xie,” “chi-fan.”

He repeated each word three times, and the POWs followed along. Their pronunciations were all over the place, sounding like a flock of ducks trying to mimic birdsong.

Roberts sat right at the front.

The American corporal was learning faster than anyone; on the paper in his hand, he had already crookedly written the two characters for “friend.” The strokes were wrong and the structure was falling apart, but it was recognizable.

Tony found a stone nearby and sat down without making a sound.

The Communication Runner taught a few more words: fight, finish, war, return, home.

Roberts repeated them once and then pieced together a complete sentence—the pronunciation was atrocious enough to startle the heavens and move the earth, but the meaning was clear.

“War finish—you—go home—enjoy life?”

The Communication Runner pushed up his glasses.

He didn't answer immediately.

Several POWs nearby also looked over, waiting to hear the answer.

The wind on the drill ground blew up the hem of the Communication Runner’s padded cotton coat; his cuffs were worn white.

Patch upon patch, the fabric on his right elbow was so thin that the greyish cotton stuffing inside was visible.

Dried mud clung to the uppers of his shoes, and the sole of the left one was peeling off, tied together with hemp rope.

This man was dressed more poorly than any POW present.

The Communication Runner tried to answer in English, the words popping out one by one: “No. War finish... still many thing.”

He couldn't explain it clearly. Frowning, he simply switched back to Chinese and turned to look at the Translator.

The Translator was a cadre in his thirties standing nearby; his voice wasn't loud as he translated word for word.

“He says that after the war, he can't go home.”

The drill ground went silent for a beat.

The Translator continued, “There are still many parts of the country that haven't been liberated. The Treasure Island hasn't been recovered. Many common people don't have enough to eat.”

The pen in Roberts' hand paused on the paper.

The Translator glanced at the Communication Runner, who added another sentence, which the Translator then relayed—

“He also says that, furthermore, with you imperialists always staring at our front door, he is not at ease.”

Roberts' pen dropped to the ground.

No one went to pick it up.

Tony stared at that young Communication Runner. Nineteen years old. Dressed worse than the captives. He didn't even have enough to eat himself.

Just now, he had said he was “not at ease.”

Who was he feeling uneasy for?

A POW spoke up; it was Sullivan, a private from California who usually didn't say much: “Wait—you won't go home after the war? Then what are you doing this for?”

The Translator relayed the words to the Communication Runner.

The Communication Runner tilted his head and thought for a moment, then said something. The Translator's expression faltered for a second before he interpreted:

“He says, if you were sick, would you only treat one part of yourself and ignore the rest? The whole person has to get well for it to count.”

Sullivan opened his mouth but couldn't find a reply.

Duncan had also walked over at some point, mud still on his hands, and squatted on the outer circle of the crowd. He was plucking at the radish sprout in his hand—one he had reflexively pulled from the ground—shredding it to bits.

He turned to Tony and said in a low voice, “I joined the army because I'd get a piece of land and a pension when I discharged. What about you?”

Tony opened his mouth.

“I... the draft notice was sent to my house. If I didn't go, I'd go to jail.”

The two looked at each other.

Neither said anything more.

---

In the evening, the Communication Runner packed up his Chinese language booklets, preparing to leave.

Tony called out to him.

“Hey.”

The Communication Runner turned back and pushed up his glasses.

The two stood by the edge of the drill ground with the Translator in the middle. The setting sun burned the white-grey track into an orange-red hue, and cooking smoke drifted over from the barracks, smelling of coarse grain porridge.

Tony asked, “How old are you?”

The Translator relayed. The Communication Runner smiled and held up one hand with five fingers, then again, then four more.

“Nineteen,” the Translator said.

Tony was silent for two seconds.

“Nineteen. At nineteen, you're already thinking about everyone in the country having enough to eat and recovering territory?”

He paused.

“When I was nineteen, I was thinking about how to chase the girl in the class next door.”

The Translator explained the latter half to the Communication Runner. The Communication Runner didn't react at first, but then he burst out laughing—laughing so hard his glasses nearly slid off the bridge of his nose, and he quickly steadied them with his hand.

After he finished laughing, he became serious again.

He said a sentence.

The Translator interpreted: “He says—chasing girls is important too. But you have to let her have a stable life first, right?”

Tony didn't reply.

He looked down at his own worn-out combat boots that exposed his toes. Then he looked up at the Communication Runner’s peeling cloth shoes tied with hemp rope.

“What is your name?”

The Communication Runner gave a name. Three characters. The Translator transliterated it; Tony said it twice, but couldn't get the pronunciation right.

The Communication Runner smiled and waved his hand, gesturing that it didn't matter. Then he pointed at Tony, then at himself, and gave a thumbs up.

“Peng—you.”

Chinese. He used the word he had just taught.

Tony was stunned for a moment.

“...Pengyou.” He followed along and repeated it, his pronunciation even worse than Roberts’.

The Communication Runner laughed even harder, patted him on the shoulder, and turned to leave. His thin silhouette disappeared around the corner of the barracks.

Tony stood in place without moving, hands in his pockets, looking at the two shadows on the ground, one long and one short, stretched to the end of the drill ground by the setting sun.

---

That night.

Jack returned from checking the posts and heard someone talking as he passed the communication room door.

He stopped.

It was Roberts’ voice. The American corporal who was learning Chinese the fastest was inside chatting with the Translator, speaking rapidly, unlike his usual stuttering manner.

Jack frowned.

He didn't go in. He turned and left.

But before morning exercises the next day, he found the Translator.

“That guy Roberts,” Jack lowered his voice,

“Don't you think he's learning Chinese a bit too fast?”

The Translator was silent for a few seconds.

“I noticed as well.”

“What do you think?”

The Translator set down the enamel mug in his hand: “His pronunciation foundation doesn't seem like it’s from zero. Some of his tonal errors are systematic, as if he was taught but didn't learn them thoroughly—I've seen students from crash courses in school before who made the exact same mistakes as him.”

Jack didn't speak.

The Translator looked at him: “What do you suspect?”

“I don't suspect anything,” Jack said, “I just think it's odd that a corporal from an artillery battery would learn Chinese before enlisting.”

The Translator picked up his mug and took a sip of water, his gaze sweeping over Jack from above the rim.

“I will report what needs to be reported. Don't do anything to alert the target.”

Jack nodded and left.

He didn't return to his bunk.

He detoured to the edge of the drill ground and sat down. The sky wasn't fully light yet, and the silhouettes of distant mountains rose and fell beneath the grey-blue canopy of the sky. The barracks windows emitted a faint yellow light from kerosene lamps, and people were speaking in low voices inside.

He thought of the sentence the Communication Runner had said yesterday.

“Chasing girls is important too. But you have to let her have a stable life first.”

Nineteen years old.

Jack crushed his cigarette butt against the sole of his shoe.

Nineteen years old.

What was he doing when he was nineteen? He was chugging beer in bars in San Antonio. He was using a fake ID to buy cheap whiskey. He was getting into fights in parking lots.

And here was a nineteen-year-old kid, wearing a cotton coat more ragged than a POW's, eating food worse than a POW's, teaching enemy soldiers how to say “Hello” and “Friend” every day.

And then saying he was “not at ease.”

Jack propped his hands on his knees and sat facing the grey sky for a long time.

The camp's broadcast began to play.

It was the wake-up call.

It wasn't a bugle call. It was a piece of music—he had heard it before; it was played every morning in the camp, a Chinese song. The melody was very simple, neither rousing nor tragic, just a kind of... indescribable peace.

He didn't understand the lyrics, but he knew the Translator had told him once—the song was about a great river, with white sails and the fragrance of rice flowers along its banks.

The broadcast quality was poor, and the speakers had static interference, but in the cold morning air, that melody carried very far.

Jack stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants.

He prepared to go to the cafeteria.

As he reached the door, the administrator came from the opposite direction. It was the cadre in his forties with an old scar on his left cheek.

The administrator called out to him: “Comrade Jack.”

Jack stopped.

The administrator's expression was different than usual. He couldn't quite say what was wrong, but there was something more in his eyes.

“This afternoon, the whole camp will assemble.”

“What's happening?”

The administrator was silent for two seconds.

“News has come from Panmunjom.”

He didn't say more. He turned and left.

Jack stood at the cafeteria door, watching the administrator's back disappear around the corner.

Panmunjom.

Negotiations.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up—not because of the cold.

It was because he suddenly realized something.

If the negotiations had a result, these people—Duncan, Wilson, Roberts, Tony—

They were going back.

They were going back to that place where “if the draft notice is sent home you have to go, or you go to jail.”

Back to that place where “Black people can't touch white people's water fountains.”

Back to that place where “you can only get a piece of land after you discharge.”

Jack looked toward the drill ground.

Duncan had already come out and was squatted by the vegetable patch, hoe in hand, loosening the soil for the radish sprouts.

His grip on the hoe was finally correct.