Chapter 142: Ghost on the 37th Line

The burnt smell of Han City hadn't faded yet, and the unit was already treading on ice shards heading south. Li Ping'an tucked his frozen hand into his sleeve, exhaled white vapor that smeared his face: In this weather, even to pee you need a stick to tap the ice.

Battalion Commander, the enemy are fleeing faster than startled rabbits! Tie Zhu kicked a melted enemy steel helmet away, and that iron lump clanged across the ice for a long distance.

Li Ping'an raised the telescope; in the view, the mountain road south of the Han River kicked up dust to the sky: They're making a strategic turn! Tell the comrades, chasing too fast can strain the back—Second Company Commander, keep your men farther from the road, watch out for mines!

On the seventh day of the first month, at dawn, the mountain ravine outside Suwon was frozen solid enough to serve as a skating rink. Li Ping'an pushed aside dead grass to look down the slope; the enemy convoy was moving south at a leisurely pace, with a tank trailing behind like an iron turtle.

Something's off, Old Li. Instructor Lao Chen shuffled over, breathing hot air, asking why these men still mind formation while retreating?

Caught any fish? Li Ping'an rubbed his numb face; that old kid Li Qiwei is already baiting the hook! He pointed at the reflective sight on the tank turret, saying when we bite, we'll take a hard hit!

Before the words finished, the vanguard company just reached the road edge when the tank barrel suddenly burst into flame. Li Ping'an rolled into a shell crater, and the splintered frozen earth clanged onto his steel helmet.

Retreat, retreat, retreat! He blew the whistle and gestured, ordering the agile ones to climb the trees!

A dozen soldiers scrambled up the pine trees; when the tank passed, the bundles of grenades they carried fell like a shower of blossoms. In the end the tank rolled into a hollow, its barrel sunk into the snow like a huge chimney.

Nice work! Tie Zhu shouted, only to be knocked down by Li Ping'an; a bullet skimmed his occiput and flew past—on the opposite slope, a few snipers in white cloaks emerged from the snow.

See that glint? Like shards of glass! Li Ping'an grabbed the captured rifle, cheek pressed to the stock. After the shot, a white shape rolled down the opposite snowbank; he pulled the bolt, ejected the shell, muttering: Back when we fought the Little Devils, we trained to locate by sound—more mysterious than any storyteller's tale!

On the ninth day of the first month, we pushed into the Pingze area; in the snowdrifts, the enemy's newly built fortifications were stacked on the hilltop like Mahjong tiles. Li Ping'an lifted his telescope and suddenly laughed: Comrades, look! They're using South Korean troops as a meat shield up front!

He pulled out a small notebook and drew a schematic; his frost‑purple fingers curled like a carrot: Tonight we'll focus on stabbing the waist‑spot!

At night the Recon Soldier reported back: the front of the position is littered with bounding mines. Wang Da Niu shouted to sweep the ground with artillery, but Li Ping'an waved his hand: Save the shells for the New Year? Let's use an ancestral skill—Fire Bull Formation!

The logistics team, overnight, borrowed a dozen or so yellow cattle from the Korean hometown; they tied oil‑soaked rags to the cows' tails. At the first pale light of dawn they lit them; the frightened herd bellowed and charged into the minefield, the exploding mines sounding like New Year firecrackers.

Charge! Li Ping'an led the leap out of the trench. The soldiers stepped on scorching shell holes and surged toward the junction; an enemy machine‑gunner who just exposed his head was instantly marked by the sharpshooter. Tie Zhu rushed onto the position and saw a pictorial spread beside the machine gun, the cover girl smiling in stark contrast to the battlefield carnage.

On the rest day, in the snowdrifts of Gaoyang, colorful parachute tents were set up. Li Ping'an patrolled the camp, smelled a fragrance, and when he lifted the Mess Hall Team's curtain, hot steam fogged his glasses: Nice work, Chef Wang has come up with a new recipe?

Canned stew with wild vegetables—imperial kitchen level! Wang Da Niu brandished an iron ladle proudly, recalling how back in Liaoxi, while suppressing bandits, he could fry a thousand‑layer pancake in an iron pot!

Sanitary worker Xiao Liu sneered: Come off it, last time you turned compressed biscuits into mush!

Li Ping'an ladled up a spoon and froze: Wait, this beef canned food's serial number is wrong—those with an asterisk are for spies! There's a scout nearby!

Half an hour later they indeed caught a Korean spy masquerading as a Korean local in the rear hills. Li Ping'an flipped through the captured map, terrified: Nice work, we almost let him take over the old nest! The kid spoke Korean fluently, almost fooled us!

During the rest days the medical team was so busy they barely touched the ground. In the cave hospital, the gas lamp squeaked; Lin Xueqing hummed "On the Taihang Mountains" while amputating a wounded soldier, and splinters of the broken wooden stick mixed with blood fell down.

Dr. Lin spoke slowly. Li Ping'an handed over a thermos of warm red‑sugar water, a cure for dizziness.

Lin Xueqing removed the blood‑stained gloves, her fingers trembling like leaves in the wind: Today we sent off three kids... the oldest just turned eighteen.

Outside the cave, it suddenly became lively. Korean mothers trudged through the heavy snow delivering rice cakes; the leading elder spoke halting Mandarin: My son died two years ago... you all are also my children.

Li Ping'an turned, blew his nose hard, then turned back, his demeanor as solid as iron: Notify all companies, tonight we hold a gala!

At the bonfire party, a harmonica played "Arirang", People's Army soldiers performed the elephant‑hat dance with ribbons swirling. Everyone clamored for the Battalion Commander to perform; Li Ping'an cleared his throat and sang a Hebei folk tune: The moonlit ground shines bright, guerrilla fighters sharpen their swords and guns...

Halfway through the song, a Recon Soldier ran over and whispered; he slapped his butt and stood: Comrades, keep the fun going, I'm going to check a post!

Under the kerosene lamp in the command post, the urgent military telegram made everyone's skin crawl. Li Ping'an circled Huangcheng with a red pencil: This place will become a meat grinder!

On the twenty‑fifth day of the first month before dawn, five enemy divisions hammered in with artillery. The southern bank of the Han River position was plowed over, and when Li Ping'an led the Reserve Unit forward, he saw a deafened soldier loading a cartridge into the barrel by muscle memory.

Battalion Commander! The left wing has collapsed! Tie Zhu rolled into the trench, shrapnel embedded in his steel helmet like a hedgehog.

Li Ping'an squinted at the smoke‑filled valley: Abandon the front, step into the kettle!

When the enemy tank column lumbered into the valley, explosive bundles roared down the cliffs on both sides. An avalanche buried half a tank battalion; the soldiers who emerged stared dumbfounded at the protruding gun barrels in the snow.

Wake up, men! Li Ping'an shouted to the mortar crew.

The shells fell into the enemy like boiling water onto an ant hill, yet the foes surged upward like locusts. At the most critical moment Li Ping'an snatched the rotary gun and sprayed; the barrel got too hot, so he swung a large blade, and Lao Chen clutched his waist: The command post can't be headless!

What command! Today I'll test whether these guys' necks are stiff enough!

At the crucial moment the bugle sounded from the flank, the People's Army raised bayonets like divine weapons descending from heaven. While both sides were stunned, Li Ping'an raised his arm and shouted: All bayonets up—Charge!

After the counterattack succeeded, he leaned on his large blade, panting heavily; a People's Army officer ran over with orders: Comrade! Commander Deng orders us to turn into Dipingli!

While moving past a burning village, a little girl crouched among the ruins crying for her mother. Li Ping'an wrapped her in a military coat; the girl clutched a half‑bloom of a gold‑dahlia paper flower, identical to the one in Han City.

Battalion Commander, how do we march with kids? the Signalman muttered.

Back when we fought the Japanese, a platoon could escort hometown folk; now a few kids is nothing. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a piece of compressed biscuit and handed it to the child: Good, uncle will carry you to find your mother.

During the night camp, the little girl fell asleep in Lin Xueqing's arms. Li Ping'an, by the bonfire, wrote a battle report and suddenly pulled out a note stuck to his chest pocket—written by a Han City girl, thanking uncle, the ink blurred by sweat.

Do you want some peace? Lin Xueqing asked softly.

He tossed a log onto the fire: After the fighting's over, bring the kids to Korea to see the gold‑dahlia. Let the younger generation know these flowers are watered with blood.

When the morning star rose, the unit moved out again, fresh snow quickly covering the footprints. Tie Zhu shuffled over, muttering: Battalion Commander, does this count as hidden merit and fame?

Li Ping'an lifted the little girl a bit higher: What's merit or fame! When someday Korean women can peacefully steam rice cakes, the kids can freely pick gold‑dahlia—that's true victory!