Chapter Thirty-Three: Memories of the Past

Inside the restaurant, Zhang Wenhao, plagued by confusion, sat down at the table. Aside from his own family of three, only Lei Zhanjun and Li Biao were present.

Lei Zhanjun personally filled a glass with white liquor for Zhang Xingping and said, “Brother Zhang, the fact that you came to see me today shows you still regard me as a brother, at least to some degree. All these years, I owe you and the other brothers far too much.” As he spoke, Lei Zhanjun’s eyes grew red and his voice grew hoarse. “The last time we drank together was the night before we took Height 469. In the blink of an eye, so many years have gone by.”

Zhang Xingping stood, raised his glass, and, for a brief moment, seemed lost in a daze. After a sigh, he said, “Zhanjun, all that is in the wine now.” With that, he threw his head back and drained the entire glass.

Zhang Wenhao watched in astonishment, even more baffled by what he overheard. Beside him, his mother held his hand, gently asking if he had suffered during his time in detention.

In less than ten minutes, Zhang Xingping and Lei Zhanjun had each drunk nearly a jin of liquor. The two spoke little, silently filling glasses, clinking them, and draining them in a single gulp. Their eyes were rimmed red, as if thousands of unspoken words were lodged in their throats, yet they did not know where to begin.

By the time they each had nearly two jin in them, Lei Zhanjun suddenly broke down, collapsing onto Zhang Xingping’s shoulder in tears. Sobbing uncontrollably, he wailed, “Brother Zhang, I’ve wronged you, wronged all our brothers, and most of all those thirty-six who died because of me. If only I’d listened to you back then, we wouldn’t have walked into the trap they set. I can never forgive myself for those thirty-six brothers who now sleep forever in the southwest!”

Zhang Xingping wept in silence, his eyes vacant as he stared at the wine glass on the table. He murmured, “The dead cannot return. Besides, the retreat route was set by our superiors. You were only following orders.”

Hearing this, Lei Zhanjun’s grief grew even deeper, his cries wrenching. “I should have listened to you, Brother Zhang! I should have ignored the retreat route from above, should have taken the back path down the shaded side of Height 469, not gone into the valley, not fallen into the Vietnamese ambush. I still remember how we argued back then. I stubbornly insisted on a frontal retreat because it was a direct order, and it would get us back to headquarters fastest. I thought the Vietnamese had already been beaten back. I never imagined they’d lay out a net, waiting for us to walk right in.”

“You said we couldn’t retreat from the front because the Vietnamese were even better at jungle warfare than we were. They liked to split into small groups and ambush our inexperienced soldiers. So you wanted to retreat down the back slope, take the small path around Height 469 and return to headquarters. But I was too foolish, too stubborn to heed your advice. All I wanted was to bring everyone back quickly for a good rest, and I never thought...”

As he spoke, Lei Zhanjun straightened up, poured himself another glass, and downed it. Choking on his regret, he said, “The moment we came down the high ground and entered the valley, when the Vietnamese fired the first shot, I was stunned. After that, gunfire erupted from all sides. We couldn’t see where they were, didn’t know where the bullets came from. They fired at us from every direction, relentless. I tried to organize the men to fight back, but we were like headless flies, not knowing where to shoot or how to break out. More and more of the brothers fell. When I was finally shot in the chest, I thought I was done for. If it weren’t for you, Brother Zhang—”

“Zhanjun,” Zhang Xingping said, tears streaming as he patted Lei Zhanjun’s shoulder, his voice choked. “Enough. Don’t say any more. So many years have passed; let’s not revisit the past.”

“No! I have to say it!” Lei Zhanjun shouted. “I’ve held these words in my heart for so many years and never had the chance to let them out. Today, I must. Otherwise, I’ll never be at peace!”

He poured another drink, downed it, and continued, “I was sure that was the end for me. But then you, Brother Zhang, rushed over and staunched my wound, carried me on your back, and organized the remaining brothers for a breakout. I remember it all clearly. So many of our brothers were gone. I was ashamed to survive. I begged you to put me down, to let me stay and atone for the others, so you could lead our brothers out. But you refused. I fought to get off your back, nearly bringing us both down. You came over and slapped me twice, cursing me for a coward and a fool.”

At this point, Lei Zhanjun broke down on the table, sobbing so hard he could not speak. Everyone present was shocked. Even Zhang Wenhao and his mother, Song Huafang, knew nothing of Zhang Xingping’s past. Song Huafang had only met him after he left the army, and Zhang Xingping had never spoken of his military years to his wife or son. Zhang Wenhao only knew his father had fought in the war in the southwest, but never realized what a bloody, desperate battle his father had survived.

Lei Zhanjun, after a moment, managed to compose himself and said, “Back then, you told me we’d already lost enough brothers, that you didn’t want to lose anyone else. Even if I was a fool, you refused to leave me behind. You lifted me onto your back again and led the surviving brothers in a breakout the other way. You were right. By then, Height 469 had lost its strategic value. The Vietnamese, having suffered at our hands there, knew we’d try to retreat to headquarters and laid heavy forces in our path. You led us the other way, taking the small path around the high ground and the valley, bringing back the rest of our men safely. My life, and those of all who survived, were saved by you. The thirty-six who fell—that blame is mine alone.”

Zhang Xingping shook his head. “Zhanjun, I did blame you back then. Maybe if you’d listened, we could have all made it back. But I was wrong to blame you. You were the company commander. Obeying orders was your duty.”

Lei Zhanjun let out a heavy sigh, wiped his tears, and, filled with guilt, said, “Brother Zhang, I know you left the army the instant the war ended because the deaths of those thirty-six brothers broke your heart. So many tried to persuade you to stay—even the commander himself—but you were disheartened and determined to go. If you had stayed, you would have had a brilliant future. You wouldn’t be working as a common laborer in River City, bullied by petty men. This is all my fault.”

Suddenly, Zhang Xingping laughed, looking at his wife and son with a foolish smile. “Zhanjun, you know, I should thank you. If I hadn’t come back, I never would have met your sister-in-law, never had such a good, sensible, and promising son. That’s worth more than anything. Besides, you know my nature. Staying in the army wouldn’t have suited me.”

Zhang Wenhao’s eyes grew hot, and at last, the tears that had been welling for so long spilled over. He never imagined that his father had once been a hero who risked his life and sacrificed so much for his country—and that, having given up so much, he lived so simply now, but with no complaint, all for the sake of his wife and son.

“Brother Zhang,” Lei Zhanjun spoke up, “even if you hold a lifetime of resentment toward me, I, Lei Zhanjun, will always regard you as my own brother. But from now on, never treat me as an outsider. If you ever need my help, you must come to me first. We once risked our lives for our country. In times of peace, even if respect is lacking, we must never let those scoundrels trample us or humiliate us as they please!”