Chapter Twelve: The Glory Stained with Blood

When Xiao Lianshan awoke, I was sitting on a stool by his bedside. The familiar sound of someone calling me “brother” was gone, leaving a hollow emptiness in my heart. He had been unconscious for three days. For a man as robust as he was, to be laid low so long, his injuries must have been grave indeed.

Of the three of us, my wounds were the lightest, though even I had fractured a finger and wore a splint wrapped in gauze. As Xiao Lianshan drifted awake, looking pale and feeble, the first thing he did was ask after my hand.

He was always like that—more concerned for others than for himself. I picked up a peeled pear and handed it to him, telling him that the knife wound on his calf had missed the tendon by less than half an inch. The doctor said he was lucky; otherwise, he might have been left with a permanent limp.

Xiao Lianshan tried to sit up, but as he strained, his face twisted with pain—no doubt his wounds had opened again. I hurried over to help him.

“Brother, how’s your hand?” he asked.

“It’s nothing, just a mosquito bite—a bit itchy,” I replied with a smile, mimicking something Xiao Lianshan himself had said before.

“Brother, you’re too much! You used your hand to grab a blade—if you weren’t careful, you could have lost your hand altogether.”

At the time, I hadn’t thought much about it. All I knew was that, whatever happened, I couldn’t let that knife land on his head.

“Brother, you’re amazing—you can predict anything, and you’re always right!” Xiao Lianshan said with a mischievous grin, biting into the apple. “Why don’t you tell my fortune and see when I’ll get married?”

“No,” I replied flatly.

“Why not?” he protested, his mouth half full of apple. “Oh, I get it! In your line of work, it’s all about fate and sincerity, right? I understand, I understand. How much money would make it sincere enough?”

“Heh, no matter how much you pay me, I won’t do it. Give it up.”

“Why not?” Xiao Lianshan pressed, putting down his apple and wiping his mouth, suddenly serious.

I looked at him and said, “I don’t read the fortunes of brothers.”

“Why not? You’ll do it for others, but not for me?” he demanded.

“Brotherhood lasts a lifetime. Since I’ve accepted you as my brother, come what may, I’ll share fortune and misfortune with you, life and death together,” I said quietly, smiling. “If you’re truly my brother, what’s the point of reading your fate?”

His hand trembled as he slapped my bandaged hand. “Brother, no need! With words like yours, this life is worth it!”

He had slapped my wound, and pain shot through me, but Xiao Lianshan just scratched his head and grinned foolishly.

“Well said. You two are true brothers, loyal to the core,” came a voice from the doorway.

Huo Qian pushed Yue Leiting into the room. Yue Leiting had just had surgery and was still confined to a wheelchair.

“Brother Ting, are your injuries serious?” I asked with concern.

“It’s nothing, just a mosquito bite—a bit itchy!” Yue Leiting echoed Xiao Lianshan’s words.

Xiao Lianshan blushed and grinned again, while Yue Leiting laughed heartily.

“Lianshan, when you were brought to the hospital, you were covered in blood. The doctors had to cut your clothes off you. Everyone present was scared out of their wits,” Huo Qian said, his voice as humble as ever. “You had more wounds than anyone should have, a dozen at least. You never struck me as the type to pick fights—how did you get all those injuries?”

“I went to see for myself when Huo Qian told me, and even I was shocked,” Yue Leiting added. “But your wounds don’t look like knife cuts. And that scar, the size of a bowl—how did you get that?”

“The big scar’s from a through-and-through gunshot wound,” Xiao Lianshan said, grinning as he bit into the apple. “The rest are nothing worth mentioning.”

“A gunshot wound?!” Yue Leiting and Huo Qian exchanged bewildered glances. “How did you get shot?”

I was curious myself. He hesitated, a calm stillness settling over him, as if he had no wish to revisit the past. From the first time I met him, I sensed something about him that didn’t match his age, but since he never spoke of it, neither did I ask. I hadn’t even looked at his face for clues.

“It happened during the counterattack against Vietnam, in 1979 at Liangshan. I was the sergeant in charge of the 598th Regiment’s security detail. We were in the vanguard, sent to break through enemy lines. The fighting was fierce, and many of my comrades fell. The Vietnamese were crack shots, firing at us from the jungle. Men died without ever seeing the enemy.”

His expression turned grave.

“You… you were a soldier? You fought in a war?” Yue Leiting asked incredulously.

“In the end, we made no progress. The colonel, desperate, charged forward with his rifle. I followed him. When we finally took the high ground, I looked back and saw the slope below was carpeted with the bodies of our brothers—more than half the regiment was lost,” Xiao Lianshan’s voice grew heavy.

“So you’re a soldier—no wonder your hand-to-hand skills are so sharp,” Yue Leiting said with respect, then paused. “But if you’ve seen so much combat, why couldn’t you bring yourself to use the knife?”

“I don’t want to kill anymore,” Xiao Lianshan said, putting down the half-eaten pear and sighing, his face shadowed. “I’ve killed enough. When we charged the hills, we lost ourselves in the bloodlust—killed anyone we saw, surrendered or not. As long as their uniforms weren’t ours, we shot without thinking. By the end, the Vietnamese had left over a thousand corpses on the field, piled like a small mountain. After a day, the whole hillside reeked of death.”

We all fell silent. Who would have imagined that this simple, honest man was a soldier, and that his stories could move anyone to the core?

“When we took the hill, the colonel wept, kneeling and bowing three times to the fallen below. No one smiled. The first order after taking the high ground was not to fortify, but to search for our comrades’ bodies.”

“Lianshan, you’re a real man,” Yue Leiting said, eyes glistening.

“When I finally calmed down, my back was throbbing with pain. I reached around and found my hand covered in blood. The medic came and told me I was lucky to be alive—my back was shredded by shrapnel, with three fragments still lodged in the muscle.”

“Who would have thought you were a war hero,” Huo Qian said, full of admiration.

“I’m no hero. I was awarded third-class merit for our actions at Liangshan, and the regiment received collective second-class merit for our tenacity,” Xiao Lianshan said with a bitter, rueful smile. “But what are medals worth? They’re heaped atop the corpses of friends.”

Yue Leiting, more astonished than ever, scratched his buzz-cut head in confusion. “With your record, why didn’t you stay in the army?”

I wondered the same. When I met him, he was a porter like me. With his record, he should have stayed in the military—perhaps something happened later. I didn’t press him, but waited quietly.

“I’ve already died once. On the military roster, I’m listed as killed in action.”

Yue Leiting and Huo Qian were stunned, exchanging glances and waiting for him to go on. I, however, was not surprised. Though I had never read his face, I had once glimpsed his palm. His heart line was broken—a sign of surviving mortal peril.

“After Liangshan, with so many casualties, our regiment was pulled back for rest. As we were about to withdraw, the division ordered us to reconnoiter enemy positions and provide coordinates for the artillery.”

“The gunshot wound on your back came from that mission, didn’t it?” I asked.

Xiao Lianshan nodded, gazing out the window as if remembering a distant scene.

“It was an important mission. The colonel himself led our security squad—eight of us in all. The mission went off smoothly. On the way back, we ran into a group of retreating Vietnamese—over thirty, many wounded. The colonel ordered us to encircle and wipe them out. The ambush worked perfectly—two lines of crossfire, and the fight was over in under ten minutes. We killed a dozen, the rest we took prisoner.”

“If it went well, how did you get hurt?” Yue Leiting pressed.

“While clearing the battlefield, a supposedly dead Vietnamese hidden in a pile of bodies fired a shot, aiming for the colonel. I saw him just in time and shoved the colonel aside. The bullet went through my shoulder and out my back.”

“Now that’s guts! That’s a real man,” Yue Leiting said.

Now I finally understood why, no matter how dangerous the situation, he always thought of others first. It was a habit forged in war.

“After the field was cleared, the colonel and six others marched the prisoners back. Two comrades supported me. When we were near regimental HQ, the colonel called for a rest. It was sweltering hot, and, being a decent man, he had us give water to the prisoners. Who would have guessed those bastards would repay kindness with betrayal? They pulled a grenade while our guard was down. Four comrades died on the spot, the colonel was gravely wounded. If the patrol hadn’t heard the explosion and arrived in time, I’d have died there too.”

Xiao Lianshan paused for a long, heavy sigh, then went on.

“Because of the gunshot wound, I was sent for emergency treatment. When I woke up two days later, I asked about the colonel and the others. No one answered. I hobbled on my crutch to the ward myself. The colonel was alive but had lost an eye and an arm. The others who’d been carried back all died of their wounds.”

“And then what happened?” Huo Qian asked urgently.

What happened next, I could guess even if he didn’t say. The palm lines on his left hand were unusual—lines of authority intersected with lines of disaster and killing.

Sure enough, Xiao Lianshan’s face was expressionless as he spoke.

“I threw away my crutch on the spot, clutched my arm, went back to the barracks, grabbed my gun, and stormed to the detention area without a word. I emptied three magazines into the surviving prisoners—killed them all.”

“Serves them right!” Yue Leiting exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “I’d have done the same.”

“But executing prisoners is a grave offense in the army, a violation of discipline. And I’d killed over a dozen. Afterward, I just sat there waiting to be arrested. All I wanted was revenge for my comrades.” Xiao Lianshan suddenly laughed, genuinely happy. “But I waited a long time and no one came. The mess hall even sent someone with food for me, set it down without a word, and patted me on the shoulder.”

“Lianshan did what everyone wanted to do. All the other brothers had it bottled up inside—he acted for them. Who would turn him in?” Huo Qian chuckled.

“I waited two days in the detention area, expecting the MPs to take me away. For what I’d done, the military tribunal would almost certainly have had me shot. But the MPs never came. Instead, it was the colonel who showed up,” Xiao Lianshan said, his expression stern. “After he woke up and heard what I’d done, he pulled out his tubes, had two comrades help him over, and, without a word, pushed everyone aside, stood tall, and gave me a perfect salute.”

“Your colonel was a real man. The kind of officer you’d expect for soldiers like you,” Huo Qian said respectfully.

“I was moved to tears. I stood and returned the salute. The hill above the detention area was lined with comrades, all saluting me. I’ll never forget that scene for as long as I live. The colonel’s eye was still bandaged, but I heard him weeping, the blood soaking through the dressing.”

“And then? How did you leave?” Huo Qian asked.

“Killing more than a dozen prisoners was no small matter. The colonel had me change clothes and leave in the night. They dressed a prisoner’s corpse in my uniform, dumped it in the minefield. The report to division headquarters was that after killing the prisoners, I’d fled and died in the minefield.”

The room fell silent. Who could have imagined that this man in his early twenties had not only been tempered by war, but had lived through such a tortuous chapter?

I glanced at Yue Leiting and Huo Qian. They exchanged a look and said nothing, but in their eyes I could see a measure of respect and awe. In Yue Leiting’s words, on the streets, people especially respect soldiers—those who have fought for their country. That’s why you rarely see anyone in our world starting trouble with veterans. It’s not out of fear, but because those who’ve survived the battlefield and tasted life and death understand loyalty and honor more deeply than anyone else.