5
Before the concussion waves died out, seemingly countless burning torches bore down on us, as the soldiers of Lu Liren’s independent 16th Regiment menacingly pushed their way toward us, black palm-bark capes draped over their shoulders, rifles with fixed bayonets at the ready, shouting in cadence. The torchbearers were civilians with white bandannas tied around their heads, mostly women with pageboy haircuts. Their blazing torches, made of old cotton wadding and rags soaked in kerosene, were held high to shine down on soldiers of the 16th Regiment. The crackle of gunfire emerged from the center of the Sima Battalion, sending a dozen or so 16th Regiment soldiers crumpling to the ground like kernels of grain. But soldiers behind them quickly took their places, and a dozen hand grenades flew through the air toward us, the explosions sounding like the sky had fallen and the earth split. “Give it up, men!” Sima Ku shouted. Weapons were thrown willy-nilly to the ground lit up by all those torches.
Sima Ku was holding Zhaodi in his bloody arms. “Zhaodi!” he screamed. “Zhaodi, my dear wife, wake up…”
A shaky hand grabbed my arm. I looked up and, in the light of the torches, saw Niandi’s ashen face. She was also lying on the ground, pressed down by several broken bodies. “Jintong, Jintong…” She could barely get the words out. “Are you all right?” My nose ached and tears gushed from my eyes. “I’m okay, Sixth Sister,” I sobbed. “How about you, are you okay?” She reached out with both hands. “Dear little brother,” she pleaded, “help me. Take my hands.” My hands were green and oily; so were hers. I grabbed hold of her hands, like catching live loaches, but they slipped out of my grip. By then, everyone else was lying on the ground; no one dared to stand up. The beam of light was still fixed on the white screen, where the clash between the American couple was reaching its climax. The woman was holding a knife above the snoring figure of the man. The young American, Babbitt, was shouting anxiously from alongside the projector, “Niandi, Niandi, where are you?” “Here I am, Babbitt, help me, Babbitt…” Sixth Sister reached a hand out to her Babbitt. She was wheezing, her face covered with tears and snot. Babbitt’s tall, slender frame began to move as he struggled to reach Niandi. He was having trouble walking, like a horse stuck in the mud.
“Stand where you are!” someone bellowed as he fired into the air. “Don’t move!”
Babbitt flattened himself out on the ground as if a sword had cut him down.
Sima Liang came crawling out of somewhere. A trickle of sticky blood was seeping out of his wounded ear onto his cheek and neck and into his hair. He lifted me up and felt me all over with his stiff fingers to see if I was all right. “You’re fine, Little Uncle,” he said. “Your arms and legs are still whole” Then he bent down and lifted the bodies off of Sixth Sister, then helped her to her feet. Her high-collared white dress was blood-spattered.
As the rain pelted down on us, we were herded into a mill house, the township’s tallest building, which now served as a stockade. Thinking back now, I realize that we had plenty of opportunities to escape. The heavy rain put out the torches carried by 16th Regiment civilians, and the soldiers themselves stumbled along as they tried to protect themselves from icy raindrops that nearly blinded them. Two yellow flashlights up front were all that led the way. And yet, no one ran away. Prisoners and guards suffered equally. As we neared the dilapidated gate, the soldiers shoved us out of the way to get in.
The mill house shuddered in the deluge, and when lightning lit up the area, I saw water cascading in through the cracks in the sheet metal roof. A bright glistening cataract poured off the sheet metal eaves, sending a river of gray water down the ditch outside the gate into the street. Sixth Sister, Sima Liang, and I were separated as we slogged our way from the threshing floor to the mill house. Directly in front of me was a 16th Regiment soldier in a black palm-bark cape. His lips were too short to cover his yellow teeth and purple gums; his gray eyes were clouded. After a bolt of lightning had died out, he sneezed loudly in the dark, sending a strong whiff of cheap tobacco and radish right into my face, tickling my nose uncomfortably. Sneezes burst forth in the darkness all around me. I wanted to locate Sixth Sister and Sima Liang, but didn’t dare call out to them, so I waited until the next brief flash of lightning to look for them amid the earthshaking peal of thunder that followed, filling the air with the smell of burning sulfur. I spotted Sleepyhead’s gaunt, yellow face behind a little soldier. He looked like a graceful specter that had just climbed out of a grave. His face turned from yellow to purple, his hair looked like two pieces of felt, his silk jacket stuck to his body, his neck was stretched taut, his Adam’s apple was as big as a hen’s egg, and you could count his ribs. His eyes were graveyard will-o’-the-wisps.
Just before dawn the rain diminished and a gentler pitter-patter replaced the pounding on the sheet-metal roof. Lightning strikes had lessened a bit, and the frightful blues and greens had given way to softer yellows and whites. Thunder had moved off into the distance, while the winds blew in from the northeast, rattling the metal sheets on the roof and letting standing water pour in through the openings. As the bone-chilling wind turned our joints stiff, we all huddled together, friend and foe alike. Women and children were crying in the dark. I felt the eggs between my legs shrink, bringing stabbing pains to my intestines, and spreading to my stomach. My guts felt frozen, a mass of ice. If anyone had felt like leaving the mill house at that moment, no one would have stopped them. But none of us even tried.
A while later, some people showed up at the gate. By then I was numb, leaning against the back of someone, who was leaning against me. The splashing sounds of people wading through water came from beyond the gate, after which several swaying beams of light shone through the darkness. A bunch of men in raincoats, only their faces showing, stood in the gateway. “Men of the 16th Regiment,” someone shouted, “fall in. You must return to headquarters.” The shouts were hoarse, but I could tell that normal voice was loud and clear, capable of stirring people up. I knew who it was the second I laid eyes on him: the face above the raincoat and under the hat was that of the commander and political commissar of the demolition battalion, Lu Liren. Word of the elevation of his unit into an independent force had reached me that spring, and now here he was.