Chapter 455: Teaching a Man to Fish

The jeep kicked up clouds of dust on the bumpy loess road.

Outside the window, the scenery shifted from the flat expanse of the North China Plain to the rolling hills.

The deeper we went into the mountains, the narrower the road became, and the scenery grew increasingly bleak.

Li Ping'an stared at the vast stretches of arid land outside, its yellow‑brown soil exposed, his brows slightly furrowed.

Lin Xueqing sat beside him, clutching the file folder tightly, her knuckles turning white.

She periodically glanced out, her gaze flickering over the low, dilapidated mud houses and the sparse figures bent over the fields in patched clothes.

Her heart sank a little more.

The driver, Lao Chen, was a veteran, spoke little, and drove steadily.

The young man in the passenger seat, Xiao Zheng, was from the foundation's preparatory team; it was his first long‑distance assignment, and he seemed a bit nervous.

"Director Li, Director Lin, after we bypass that ridge ahead, we'll be at the border of Hongqi Township. Liu Shu Gou still requires another ten‑plus miles into the mountains, and the road gets worse," Lao Chen said, turning back.

"Okay, no rush, safety first," Li Ping'an nodded.

After another half hour of jolting, the vehicle finally stopped in front of a courtyard bearing a wooden sign with white background and black characters reading "Hongqi Township People's Government."

The courtyard was small, with a few single‑story houses, their wall plaster peeling in places.

Hearing the vehicle, a fifty‑something cadre in a gray Zhongshan suit hurried out, his face wearing a warm smile that could not hide his fatigue.

"You're the Comrade Li and Comrade Lin from Shenzhen, right? Welcome, welcome! I'm Wang Jianguo, the deputy township chief in charge of civil affairs," he said, extending both hands and gripping Li Ping'an's hand firmly. "We received a Telephone from the county saying you were coming to inspect; we've been looking forward to it! It's been a hard journey—come inside and have some water!"

The township government's meeting room was very plain.

White‑washed walls, cement floor, an old long table, and a few chairs.

Deputy Head Wang hurriedly poured boiled water, forgetting to add tea leaves.

"Our conditions here are poor; please bear with us," he said, a bit embarrassed.

"Deputy Head Wang, no need to be formal; we're the ones intruding,"

Li Ping'an waved his hand and got straight to the point, "We're here mainly to learn about Liu Shu Gou Village, especially the living conditions of the families of martyrs and disabled veterans. We also want to see if the township has any ideas on how we can help improve their lives together."

Deputy Head Wang's smile faded slightly, and he sighed.

"Liu Shu Gou… that's our township, no, our county's famous 'Honor Village.' But that name… sigh, it can't serve as food,"

He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and began his briefing.

The situation matched what the reports said, but hearing it from locals added a heavier weight.

"That place has many mountains and thin soil, and water is scarce. Corn and millet yield little per mu. Any able‑young man with a connection leaves. Those left are mostly the old, weak, women and children. The few families of martyrs, plus Zhao Laoshuan— the disabled veteran who returned— live the tightest lives."

"The county and township send rice, flour, oil during festivals, but those supplies don't last long. We'd like to give them side jobs—raising chickens, but without skill many die. Planting fruit trees takes a long cycle and slow results; they can't wait."

Deputy Head Wang flicked ash, his brows knotted.

"The hardest part is morale. Years ago, villagers took pride in those ten‑something military merit medals. Over time, as life grew harder, some felt that 'honor' can't be worn as clothing or eaten as food. The younger generation knows little about the past,"

Lin Xueqing listened quietly, noting key information in her notebook.

When she heard "morale," her pen tip paused.

Li Ping'an pondered briefly and asked, "Deputy Head Wang, we'd like to bring some tangible items to see the villagers first; what do you think…"

"Of course, of course!" Deputy Head Wang nodded immediately. "Going empty‑handed would be improper and awkward. I'll have someone go to the township supply‑and‑marketing cooperative to buy some rice, flour, oil, and a bit of salt and sugar. It doesn't have to be much; it's a gesture. I'll go with you and call the village chief of Liu Shu Gou; he knows each household best."

"Alright, then we'll trouble you, Deputy Head Wang," Li Ping'an nodded, "We'll cover the cost of the items."

"Oh dear, how can I…"

"It's my duty."

Soon, the jeep's back seat and trunk were packed with bulging bags of grain and plastic oil drums.

White flour, cornmeal, rapeseed oil, and a few packets of salt and brown sugar wrapped in old newspapers.

The goods weren't expensive, but in this remote mountain township they were solid hard currency.

Two vehicles, one ahead of the other, drove deeper into the mountains.

The road to Liu Shu Gou could no longer be called a road.

It was a ravine carved by Yushui on the loess slope, and the jeep bounced like a drunk.

On either side of the road were bare hillsides and scattered, sparsely growing trees.

Occasionally a small patch of reclaimed terraced field appeared, its corn seedlings wilted and drooping.

The air was filled with dry dust and a sense of barren desolation.

Lin Xueqing looked out the window, feeling as if a stone blocked her chest.

She had imagined poverty here, but the sight was more shocking than she had imagined.

The cold statistics labeled "living difficulties" in the reports had turned into the lifeless land before her eyes and the silhouettes of low, dilapidated villages in the distance.

At the village entrance, indeed, stood an old willow.

The trunk was so thick that two or three people had to clasp it together, yet the canopy was sparse; many branches were dead, like a gaunt elderly man's arms reaching skyward.

Under the tree, a few villagers stood scattered, watching the convoy from afar, their eyes a mix of curiosity, but mostly indifference and wariness.

The vehicle stopped.

Deputy Head Wang and Yang stepped out first, greeting the villagers.

"Everyone, young and old, don't just stand there! These are the Comrade Li and Comrade Lin from Shenzhen, here especially to visit our village's martyrs' families and Zhao Laoshuan! They also brought some food for everyone!"

The villagers gradually gathered around, yet kept their distance, murmuring softly.

Li Ping'an and Lin Xueqing got out of the vehicle.

They wore simple clothes, but their demeanor and complexion still clashed with the surrounding environment and people.

Lin Xueqing inhaled deeply, suppressing the bitterness in her heart, and forced a calm smile onto her face.

She approached a middle‑aged woman, clutching a child and wearing tattered clothes, and asked softly, "Ma'am, how many people are in your family? How old is the child?"

The woman flinched back half a step, glanced at the village chief beside her, then whispered, "Four of us… the child is two years old."

The accent was heavy; Lin Xueqing had to listen carefully to understand.

"Are you getting by?" she asked again.

The woman lowered her head, said nothing, and unconsciously patted the child in her arms.

An old man beside them puffed on a dry pipe and said in a low voice, "What's the point? Just getting by. The fields won't yield food, and the young have all fled."

Li Ping'an did not speak immediately.

He walked to the old willow tree and looked up.

On the trunk, some faint carvings still lingered, their date unknown.

Yang Village Chief came over, squatted under the tree, and pointed with his finger at a shallow pit on the trunk almost covered by bark.

"My father said that back then troops were sent here, under this tree. Eighteen youngsters, each full of spirit. Someone carved a mark with a knife, saying it was to keep a memory, and when we drove out the Japanese Soldiers, we'd come back to compare heights, see who grew taller."

His voice was low, thick with a strong rural accent.

"Later… only three came back. No one compared the mark anymore."

The wind slipped through the dead branches, sighing like a lament.

"Let's go to Uncle Zhao's house first," Wang Township Chief suggested, "He's a disabled veteran, the oldest in the village, and his situation… is more difficult."

The group carried rice, flour, and oil, followed Yang Village Chief, and walked along the sunken village path inward.

Most of the mud‑brick houses by the road were low, their yellow mud plaster cracked and flaking.

Occasionally a chicken scratched for food in the earth, and when it saw people, it shrieked and fled.

Zhao Laoshuan's house was at the far end of the village.

A still lower, dilapidated courtyard, its earthen wall collapsed at a corner, propped weakly with branches.

The gate was made of a few broken planks nailed together, crooked.

Yang Village Chief shouted from outside, "Uncle Zhao! Are you home? Leaders have come to see you!"

From inside came a rustling and a suppressed cough.

After a while, the door creaked open from inside.

A gaunt, almost skeletal old man leaned on the doorframe and stuck out half his body.

He wore an old military uniform faded white from washing, patched upon patched, without collar insignia or cap badge, yet the fabric was still fairly clean.

One pant leg was empty.

Deep knife‑cut wrinkles covered his face, his eye sockets were sunken, his gaze clouded, but seeing so many people, especially Wang Township Chief and Yang Village Chief, he strained to straighten his hunchback.

"Village chief… Wang Township Chief… what are you…" his voice was hoarse and dry.

Lin Xueqing's nose tingled with sourness, and she almost burst into tears.

She forced herself to hold back, stepped forward, and tried to make her voice sound gentle: "Comrade Zhao, hello. We came from Shenzhen; we heard you were a hero of the Korean War, earned great merit, and we came especially to see you. We brought some rice and oil; please accept them first."

She signaled Xiao Zheng to carry the items over.

Zhao Laoshuan stared at the white flour and the clear oil drum, stunned.

His lips trembled, wanting to say something, but no sound came out.

The withered, thin hand, covered in old calluses and scars, trembled as it reached out, then recoiled as if burned.

"This… how can I… can't…" he kept shaking his head, the empty pant leg swinging with it.

"Uncle Zhao, please accept it," Wang Township Chief said, "This is the concern of enthusiastic Shenzhen enterprises for the families of our war heroes. Comrade Li and Comrade Lin came from far away just to help you honored veterans have a better life."

Yang Village Chief also urged, "Uncle, please accept it; it's a token of goodwill."

Zhao Laoshuan finally shakily took the bag of flour, which was heavy; his body swayed, and Xiao Zheng quickly helped steady him.

The old man lowered his head, looked at the flour in his arms, then raised his head to glance at Li Ping'an and Lin Xueqing; in his cloudy eyes a glimmer of moisture flickered.

"Come in… come in and sit… the ground outside is hard," he turned aside, clearing the doorway.

Inside was even more shabby than the outside.

An earthen kang lay there, its bedding torn with holes.

An old table with a wobbly leg and two stools.

On the wall hung a yellowed New Year picture and a framed award plaque; the words "First‑Class Merit" had faded a bit but remained noticeable.

Next to the plaque hung a faded military water bottle and a polished enamel jar stamped with "Dedicated to the Dearest Person."

Beyond that, the house was empty.

An indescribable scent, a mix of dust, herbs, and poverty, filled the air.

Everyone forced themselves to sit on the kang edge and the stools.

Zhao Laoshuan tried to put the flour away but didn't know where to place it, looking a little at a loss.

Lin Xueqing said softly, "Comrade Zhao, don't trouble yourself, please sit. We just want to chat with you."

Li Ping'an also spoke, his tone plain as everyday conversation: "Brother, which unit were you in back then?"

When the unit was mentioned, Zhao Laoshuan's eyes seemed to brighten a bit.

"38th Army… 113th Division…" he recited the numbers, his voice still hoarse but clearer, "Fought at Yun Mountain… defended Feihu Mountain… later by the Han River…"

The recollection was fragmented, interspersed with place names and battle fragments.

He spoke slowly, sometimes stumbling, straining to recall.

But that one‑legged stance remained perfectly upright.

"A fragment of shrapnel…" he pointed at his empty pant leg, "didn't get it all out… when the sky is overcast it hurts… but it's no big deal."

He said it lightly.

Lin Xueqing, however, knew that meant decades of relentless torment.

"After returning home, the Government arranged for me to go to a veterans' home, but I didn't go."

Zhao Laoshuan lowered his head, "I wanted to come back… to watch over this land. So many brothers never returned… I have to look after them for them."

The house fell silent.

Only the old man's heavy breathing could be heard.

Li Ping'an was silent for a moment.

He looked at the old man, at the award on the wall and the enamel jar, and spoke slowly.

"Brother, the sacrifices and contributions you made back then have not been forgotten by the state or the people. This time we come not only to bring some food and supplies, but also to ask you, to ask about other families in the village that are in difficulty, and what they might rely on in the future to make life a little better?"

He paused, then spoke in the most straightforward terms.

"Just giving things away won't last. Look, this land in the village—aside from planting corn—could we grow something else of value? For example, medicinal herbs? Or raise something? Chickens? Sheep?"

Zhao Laoshuan was stunned, seeming not to understand.

Village Chief Yang explained beside him: "Uncle, Comrade Li means to help us find a way that brings money continuously, not just this one time."

Township Chief Wang also nodded: "Exactly, better to teach a man to fish than to give him a fish."

Zhao Laoshuan understood this time.

A thoughtful expression, not just simple gratitude or numbness, appeared for the first time on his gaunt face.

"The soil... the soil is thin, water scarce," he said slowly. "I don't know about growing medicinal herbs. Raising chickens... a few years ago someone tried, a chicken plague wiped them out. Sheep... there isn't enough grass to feed them."

The difficulties are concrete.

But it also shows he has thought about it; reality has trapped him.

"Techniques can be learned, and lacking grass we can plant," Li Ping'an said, his voice steady and persuasive. "Our foundation can bring in knowledgeable technicians to teach. What herbs to grow, how to prevent disease, where to sell—we can help make the connections."

He looked toward Township Chief Wang and Village Chief Yang.

"In the township and village, could we set aside a sloping plot dedicated to growing herbs and raising sheep? Or try drought‑resistant medicinal herbs? First find one or two households willing to try; we'll supply breeding sheep, seedlings, and techniques. Once they're raised and sold for profit, it can spread to other families."

"Purchase station..." Lin Xueqing added, "We can set up a point in the township to buy villagers' sheep and herbs at fair prices. No worry about selling."

These words were like a stone thrown into still water, sending ripples outward.

Zhao Laoshuan's murky eyes began to brighten little by little.

Village Chief Yang and Township Chief Wang exchanged glances and saw the excitement in each other's eyes.

This was no longer a simple condolence.

It was a solid, hopeful way forward!

"Comrade Li... Comrade Lin... are you serious?" Zhao Laoshuan's voice grew hoarser with emotion.

"We're serious," Li Ping'an nodded, "but this can't be rushed; we must proceed step by step. Choose the right people, learn reliable techniques, find proper markets. The first year or two may be slow, but once the method is right, it will improve over time."

He looked at the old man.

"Brother, you weren't afraid of gunfire on the battlefield back then. With this little difficulty, we'll figure it out together and always find a way. Isn't that so?"

Zhao Laoshuan looked at Li Ping'an, then at Lin Xueqing, then at Township Chief Wang and Village Chief Yang.

His one leg pressed firmly into the earth beneath him.

Then he straightened his hunched back, like a veteran receiving a new combat mission.

"Charge!" he said, a single word.

The voice was soft, yet resonated with authority.

The dim yellow light streamed through the cracked window, falling on the old man's aged yet suddenly revitalized face.

It fell on the faded lettering of the first‑class merit certificate on the wall.

At that moment, something in the dilapidated mud house seemed different.

It was no longer heavy pity and charity.

Instead, a faint yet genuine spark of hope was ignited.

About survival.

About dignity.

About how the word "honor" can cease to merely hang dusty on a wall and become a tangible, life‑nourishing force.

Outside the window, the old willow's dead branches swayed gently in the wind.

It seemed to watch silently as this new "expedition" unfolded on the land it guards.