Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4 - 7 2018 | Page 129

I watched in horror as a bullet hit him and he lost his grip on the railing of the bridge. He was over the edge
in the blink of an eye, falling into the yellow waters of the Dadu River. His body plunged into the sharp
verge of a rock and he was tossed into the river. His body was slammed over and over again by the waves
and he was soon out of sight.
My friend. My only friend was gone, just like that.
He has sacrificed himself for the army, for the country. He has sacrificed himself for the justice of all
communists. It was an act of bravery, a pledge of dedication to the party. He knew, from the moment he
raised his hand, that he would not make it out of here alive. Yet, he chose his country over his life. He died
before seeing his country rise to power, he died before seeing his country be blessed by the spirits of peace.
He died a hero, the selfless hero who brought the Red Army to success.
My friend. My only friend was gone.
Snow was brushing against our faces, icy wind piercing through our chests, extracting more and more pieces
of hope from our hearts. It was winter, and we were thousands of miles away from home.
The men said that the civil war would soon be over, and families would reunite and we would all go back
home. But where is home? I could vaguely remember the sturdy walls of our living room, and the laughters
that rang and echoed at every wall. Home is playing with Cixi on the rough and cracked floor of our
backyard, home is playing tag with Wang in the village, home is having dinner with Ma and Ba and Cixi,
talking about interesting events that happened around the area.
These moments were long gone when Ba was sent to fight in the war. They were the men of the village,
the people with strength and wisdom. I wasn't old enough then, or I would have joined them.
Another year passed and Wang and I was enrolled into the army. We left home with the determination to
save the nation and a heart full of hope. We promised those who were left behind that we would be back
soon, with Ba and other men who has left home for war as well.
Months passed.
We expected a short and effortless battle, but as the war dragged on for weeks and eventually months, we
accepted our fate with a bitter heart. We continued with our daily routines with dark clouds over our heads,
until a bomb broke through the clouds and into our camp, and we were forced to flee. The moments were
gone, but memories still remained stitched to our hearts.
The journey to Western China seemed never ending. It has been weeks of striding down steep roads and
hiking up mountains. It has been months of fighting and surviving in the deserted woods and mountains. It
was an uphill battle, and though there were bruises on my skin and open wounds in my stitched and patched
minds, I carried on.
"We're approaching our last few rings of the mountains," I heard one of the men said.
"And after that?" another man responded.
"More walking," he replied, "But definitely easier and not as cold.”
Cold was an understatement, it was freezing. We’re in the snow mountains of Jade Mountain, where the sky
was clear and the scenery was beautiful, but all I could see was the staggered postures of men as they went
on on this endless journey, the line of dark heads extending to horizons where none can see. These were the
souls of broken men, those who didn’t know where they’re going, those who trust in their chairman, those
who longed for a peaceful life. These were the men who still remained strong, those who were winning the
battle so far.