Chapter Sixty-Two: Bonds of Affection

It was at this moment that a hotel attendant knocked on the door, approached, and asked, “Mr. Lei, it’s about time—shall we begin serving the dishes?”

Lei Zhanjun hurriedly waved his hand. “Yes, start bringing the food. And open the first ten cases of the liquor I brought.” Turning to his comrades, he announced, “I brought twenty cases of genuine, military-issue Maotai from the army district today. Drink to your heart’s content, and if you can’t finish it, take some home!”

The crowd cheered at the mention of such fine liquor, and Lei Zhanjun began arranging his nearly thirty comrades into seats at the various tables.

The Zhang Wenhao family sat at the same table as Lei Zhanjun’s family. The seating was arranged with a touch of humor—Zhang Xingping and Lei Zhanjun together, next to them their wives, Song Huafang and Mrs. Lei, then Zhang Wenhao and Lei Lei.

Once everyone was seated, hotel staff rolled in several trolleys. Each table received sixteen cold appetizers, all prepared in advance, and the wine, transported earlier by truck from the army district, was also brought in. Lei Zhanjun reminded everyone with a laugh, “Listen up, everyone! Sixteen cold dishes, don’t worry about the hot dishes yet—drink to your fill first! The hot courses won’t start for another ninety minutes!”

The thunderous cheers startled even the hotel staff. These men were all once hardened warriors, men of iron and stamina who considered drinking as essential as breathing. Moreover, for many, this was their first reunion since leaving the military; excitement filled the air, and all were eager to drink heartily with the brothers they once shared life and death with.

The wine glasses in the hotel each held 250 milliliters, and the Maotai was a 53-proof special military blend. Lei Zhanjun stood and called out, “Brothers, fill your glasses!”

“Alright!” The men stood, filling their glasses to the brim. Lei Zhanjun raised his glass and turned to Zhang Xingping. “Big Brother Zhang, every man here owes his life to you. Without you, there wouldn’t be this gathering. The first toast—let it be yours.”

Zhang Xingping wanted to decline, but the others joined in, urging him on. Looking at the passionate faces around him, he nodded, let out a soft sigh, and said, “It’s been so many years, and I’ve dreamt of this moment. Back then, we were just a bunch of kids. The few senior brothers with wives and families didn’t all make it home. But now, each of us has our own family, our own children, our own lives. This peace was hard-won. Without the brothers who fell before us, none of us would be here to enjoy it. So, let’s make this first toast to those who fought and fell alongside us but didn’t return.”

His words brought tears to everyone’s eyes. Some, remembering old times, began to sob openly. Zhang Xingping, his nose trembling, forced back the tears that threatened to spill. He clapped one palm over the mouth of his glass, smashed the base onto the table with a crack, not spilling a drop, then raised his glass high. “Brothers, bottoms up!”

“Cheers!” The men all slammed their glasses against the table and shouted in unison, “Bottoms up!”

Half a glass of strong liquor was downed in an instant. Zhang Wenhao was deeply moved, but when he looked at his orange juice, he felt oddly out of place. His father had forbidden him to drink until his wounds healed, so he could only sigh and raise his glass of juice. Just as he was about to drink, Lei Lei suddenly raised her glass to him. “Zhang Wenhao, shall we toast each other?”

He smiled at her, clinked his glass gently, and downed his juice, muttering, “If only this were wine…”

Though the room was boisterous, Lei Lei caught his words. She smiled, leaned in, and whispered, “You’re a special case today, and my dad won’t let me drink either, so we’ll have to make do with orange juice. Someday, we’ll really drink together. And I’ll have you know—my tolerance is quite good.”

Zhang Wenhao smirked playfully. “Do you think I can’t hold my alcohol?”

Lei Lei raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see when the time comes.”

“Alright, it’s a date. One day, we’ll have a proper drink,” Zhang Wenhao replied.

Lei Lei laughed, then leaned closer and whispered, “Teach me some real combat skills one day. After seeing your moves earlier, I realized that Taekwondo looks impressive but is lacking. We always competed on who could kick higher and straighter, but you think about how to take someone down in the shortest time. That’s real presence.”

Zhang Wenhao teased, “Taekwondo has presence too! You practice in special halls, wear special uniforms, your belt shows your rank, and you always shout before making a move. That’s ambiance.”

“Don’t say that,” Lei Lei shook her head in mock frustration. “Now I see—Taekwondo and Sanda are more for show. They look good but aren’t true combat.”

Once the middle-aged men started drinking, they didn’t stop. They toasted three times—the first to their fallen brothers, the second to their present lives, the third to hopes for the future. The two women watched the men, who laughed and cried like children, shaking their heads but deeply moved. Meanwhile, the younger generation clinked orange juice out of boredom, swallowing saliva at the rich aroma of Maotai in the air.

Zhang Wenhao worried his father would overdrink, as everyone kept coming to toast him, affectionately calling him “Big Brother.” Even after all these years, their faces were full of undisguised gratitude. Lei Zhanjun, too, was not spared—everyone took turns toasting him, but always with apologies, saying they shouldn’t have blamed him for the ambush all those years ago.

For Lei Zhanjun, their forgiveness was the deepest knot in his heart. When each comrade sincerely expressed remorse and goodwill, Lei Zhanjun broke down in tears. His wife and daughter, Lei Lei, also wept quietly, knowing how many years he had struggled with guilt and self-reproach—the countless nights of nightmares and tears, the times he struck himself in anguish—all finally laid to rest in this moment.

From then on, they began recalling every person who had once appeared in their lives and was now gone.

Wang Sen, tears mingling with a smile, toyed with his glass. “Remember our instructor? That man from Qilu. How old was he when we went to war?”

“Thirty-nine!” Zhang Xingping replied immediately. “He was thirty-nine that year and had three kids. The youngest is in their thirties now, all doing well and very filial. Unlike some families where siblings push responsibility for their parents onto each other, these three dote on their mother, fighting over who gets her to stay longer. Our old sister-in-law is living well.”

“We should visit her someday,” Wang Sen said softly. “The instructor cared for me—didn’t want me to pick up smoking. But when I did, he’d always swap his filtered cigarettes for my unfiltered ones. Before he died, he asked me to call him ‘Dad’—said I was about the same age as his eldest son and he’d never hear his son call him that again…”

Unable to finish, Wang Sen broke down, sobbing into his arms as his friends rushed to comfort him. At this, Zhang Xingping stood, raised his glass, and spoke out, “Why dwell only on the sad things? Did our brothers leave us with nothing but sorrow?”

His words resonated, and everyone agreed. They began recalling their fallen comrades, not with grief, but with fond smiles, remembering the good times they’d shared.

As more rounds were poured and the hot dishes served, the atmosphere gradually mellowed. The conversation turned from toasts and memories to the present—how each was faring in life.

Some had become prosperous businessmen, others like Zhang Xingping lived comfortable, if modest, lives, while a few were struggling.

After a few drinks, the truth came out. Hearing that some comrades were having a hard time, Lei Zhanjun made a decision: his family would invest in opening a veteran-run supermarket chain in each friend’s city, to be managed by those in need or their families, with half the shares allocated to them.

Every man refused without hesitation. They wouldn’t accept help, not wanting to trouble a comrade, but also out of pride and a belief in self-reliance. Most of all, they didn’t want money to taint the brotherhood between them.

Mrs. Lei proposed a professional business model: she would assemble a management team to conduct field studies, select locations, and secure stable suppliers in each city. She would fund the decoration and setup, keeping each store’s cost below half a million. The friends wouldn’t hold shares but would receive half the net profits as dividends.

Even then, they hesitated. Finally, Zhang Xingping stood, solemn and forceful. “Anyone who refuses can leave this room now. From this day on, you’re no longer my brother! If we can’t help each other in times of need, what’s the point of brotherhood? Without mutual support, we’re not even as close as casual friends!”

Under his insistence, everyone agreed. Aunt Xue promptly took out her phone, recorded each man’s number and address, and promised that every store would be within three kilometers of their home, for maximum convenience.

This remarkable reunion continued until midnight. They all drank deeply, yet stayed remarkably sober.

Before parting, Lei Lei pulled out a camera to capture a group photograph. Wang Sen hurried to the service desk for several sheets of A4 paper and wrote seven bold characters and two marks, each man holding a piece. The hotel staff took a meaningful photo, capturing the Zhang family, the Lei family, and their twenty-seven comrades together.

Joined together, the A4 sheets spelled: “We are alive, and our lives are splendid!”

———

For reasons unknown, writing this chapter left me emotionally stirred. I urge everyone to learn more about a public welfare initiative called “Caring for Veterans.” It’s incredibly moving and stirs a sense of guilt without reason.