Ocean of Words (15 page)

Guan and Song had studied Russian in middle school, so those sentences were nothing for them, but the rest of us had to labor day and night to remember every sound in each word. We marked every Russian syllable with a Chinese character and then tried to memorize the characters in a meaningless order. When we shouted out the Russian words on the drill ground, nobody could understand them, let alone obey the orders correctly. Wu once burst into tears, because that afternoon somehow his tongue simply couldn’t
work out a Russian sentence and even his Chinese was broken and incomprehensible. In Jee’s words, “it was like having a donkey’s penis in his mouth.” He kept gnashing his gums at us for hours.

Besides our two Russian experts, Guan and Song, Jee did really well. He was probably the best among us, the ignorant ones. Of course he worked on it harder than we did. He could rap out every syllable clearly, though his sentences tended to remain broken. Wu often grabbed him to practice Russian together. Jee’s voice was thin and suave, while Wu’s was thick and hoarse. Whenever the two practiced in the corridor, we would prick up our ears, listening. “No, not like that,” Jee would say. “Don’t mumble. You must shout and let your voice scare them.”

Apparently Jee was pleased with his Russian, though he dared not demonstrate his achievement in the presence of Song and Guan. Song once offered to teach him a few more sentences, but Jee neither accepted nor refused. He merely said, “Let me think about it.”

“Don’t you want to know some truly interesting words?” Guan broke in, winking at Jee.

“I want to know everything about your mother.”

We laughed.

“Miss Jee,” Guan went on, “if you really want to know those words, you must stop being so promiscuous and marry me first. Otherwise how can I make you understand those secret words? Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you’re not a virgin anymore. Of course you can understand.”

The whole room rang with laughter. Jee remained silent, glaring at Guan with his teeth gritted.

In the final week of the training, we undertook a forced march. This time everything was described to us in advance — the route, the task, and the time were all clear. After dinner, everybody was given two steamed buns for
the night. Like most of my comrades, I ate them promptly, believing it better to carry them inside than on my back. Jee didn’t eat his. He was always more calculating than we were.

At eight-thirty we set out south. The snow was deep; the air smelled of birch and pine. Fully equipped, we walked and ran in turn through fields, valleys, hills, woods. Our task was to reach a hill in the Six-Finger Mountain by eleven and surround and wipe out the Russian paratroops.

The wind slacked off while the temperature was dropping. A silver moon swayed in the cloudless sky. Time and again, flocks of crows and pheasants were roused by us, darting away into the dark. A pack of wolves was howling in a distant valley.

It was ten-fifteen and we still had nine
li
ahead. Our pace was picking up; we moved at the double, which gradually turned to a sprint. “Close up!” Platoon Leader Ding ordered under his breath. We were running desperately. The air was vibrating with the commotion caused by our boots. Somebody’s canteen dropped on the ground and was kicked off, clattering down a cliff. Soon the mountain emerged like a gigantic mushroom in the sky in front of us.

At eleven sharp the bugle blared out and we charged up the hill. Somebody shouted in Russian, “Put down your arms!” Then many kinds of Russian words were echoing in the mountain.

Soon I felt top-heavy, as though the earth was shifting under my feet. Jee was ahead of me, his rifle across his field pack and his hands grabbing branches to pull himself upward. He climbed very slowly.

We were less than a hundred meters from the summit now. Suddenly three red flares pierced the sky, their blazing tails drawing large question marks in the dark space. Below them everything turned pink and distinct for a few seconds.
This meant that the enemy was eliminated and that our men had reached the top. I climbed with all my strength and caught up with Jee. He was staggering; he stopped, holding the branches of a juniper with both hands.

“Jee, hurry up,” I said.

He shook his head; his body seemed to reel. Zheng Yuan came up and slapped Jee on the back. “Need help?”

Jee shook his head again. Zheng went on climbing. I was desperate and cried at Jee, “Come on, let’s go!”

Jee pressed his fist against his stomach. “Oh, I’m so hungry!”

“Take a bite of your bun, quick.” I fished a bun out of his bag, but I didn’t raise it to his mouth. It was frozen as hard as stone. “You can’t eat this. Come, let’s go.”

He looked tearful, but he struggled to move up. The second he let go of the branches, he fell into a swoon, rolling down the slope together with a few rocks. I was scared and shouted, “Squad Leader Lu, Jee Jun fainted! Come over here and help!”

A few men climbed down looking for Jee. Across the hill, one voice after another cried, “Miss Jee fainted!” There were happy whoops and laughter everywhere. At once, everybody seemed to forget his fatigue.

Fortunately, Jee was not hurt. When we were carrying him down the hill, I was surprised that his cotton-padded jacket and trousers were all wet; even his fur hat was soaked with sweat. He must have been extremely weak. Even if he had eaten those buns before the departure, still he might not have been able to make the march. We wrapped him up in two overcoats and put him on a horse cart, which carried him and the cooks directly home.

The next morning, I was amazed to see Jee get up as usual and do the early morning exercises. He was tough.

His fainting in the mountain gave rise to another couplet.
This time I didn’t participate in making it, though. Zheng Yuan was the most active one, but he was no poet and couldn’t contribute a word. Song Ang and Guan Chi were the major authors. Now the Miss Jee poem had its fourth stanza:

One afternoon Wang Fukai complained that the doggerel didn’t feel finished. Everyone agreed, but nobody could add anything to it, hard as they tried. Poetry must reflect real life; without an actual occurrence, however smart they were, those poetic brains couldn’t create another good couplet about Jee. If what the lines described had not actually happened, none of us would accept them, because we could never libel Jee.

In several days we would leave for different units. Quite a few men were busy working on a new couplet, but to no avail. Not until the farewell dinner was there a breakthrough in the project.

Each squad was to eat the last dinner in their own room. We brought back dishes and rice in washbasins and liquor in thermos bottles. At last, we were able to eat and drink our fill. Certainly not everybody was happy during the last days, because some of us were assigned to good units while others had to go to bad ones. Song Ang, Zheng Yuan, and I were going to the Artillery Battalion at Guanmen Village, Guan Chi and Wang Fukai to the Fourth Company at Fang-shi Valley, Zhang Min to the Reconnaissance Company at Lujia Village, Jee Jun to the Ninth Company in Mati Mountain. Lucky for Wu Desheng, he would go to the Transportation Platoon at the Regimental Headquarters. This meant he was going to learn how to drive a truck. Such a bulky fellow, he should have driven a tank, as we had
thought. Wang Fukai was scared, because his company was stationed at the front. On our way to the kitchen to bring back cabbage salad, he said to me, “I must write home and ask my dad to have me transferred back inland.” His father was a divisional chief of staff in the Thirty-ninth Army. Actually, Jee’s company was at the most forward position, only four
li
from the border, but he did not look disturbed. It seemed he would be the first of us to meet the Russians, and he was ready for it.

Since the night march, Jee had seldom said an unnecessary word; whenever free, he read by himself. Unlike us, he had more time because he didn’t write letters. In the eight weeks of the training he wrote only once, to his commune. Now, even a few minutes before the farewell dinner, he sat there alone by the window poring over Chairman Mao’s poetry. Though he looked uninterested in the feast, I caught him glancing at the liquor and dishes on the floor.

“Put that book away, Miss Jee,” Guan said. Then he turned to us. “Now begins the banquet.”

We all stood up, including Jee, and raised our mugs. Squad Leader Lu proposed: “May every one of you have a future as broad as ten thousand
li!
”

“Glasses dry!”

“Glasses dry!”

We all drained our mugs. Everybody turned to Jee; to our amazement, his was also empty. “You’re good, Miss Jee,” Wu said. “Come, let’s have another for our friendship.”

“Who’s your friend?” Jee refilled his mug and looked fierce. “Come on, glasses dry. Everybody, not only Hog Wu.”

We all emptied another mug, then began attacking the stewed pork and the fried yellow croakers. I felt sick, having never drunk so much; I sat down and tried to eat some scrambled eggs and mushrooms. Meanwhile, the others
gobbled and gulped, laughing and talking about their units and possible job assignments.

We hadn’t expected Jee to have a large capacity for alcohol. After four or five mugs, most of us could no longer stand. Only Song Ang and Wu Desheng accompanied Jee drinking now, though nobody ever gave up eating. Jee challenged them again. Rolling his round eyes, Song said, “Wait a minute, I need to pee. Wait until I’m back with more room inside.” He turned to me. “Little Fan, do you want to pee?”

I slouched out with him, fearing Jee would dare me to drink more. We did not go to the latrine but just urinated outside the entrance of the schoolhouse, since we were leaving and wouldn’t have to do the cleaning ourselves. As our urine was drilling holes in the ice, Song yawned and chanted:

“Wonderful poetry,” I said. The cold wind was hissing.

“Too bad we can’t finish the Miss Jee poem,” he replied.

When we returned, only Jee stood in the room. Wu was prone on the floor. “He’s defeated.” Jee pointed at Wu. “None of you is a man. Song Ang, it’s your turn.”

Song grinned and took a thermos bottle. “Let’s u-use this bigger mug, Miss Jee.”

“All right.” Jee picked up a thermos from the floor. They clinked and began drinking. Both of them, each with one arm akimbo, stood there as if blowing thick bugles.

Three minutes later, Song collapsed on the floor; neither of them drained the thermos bottle. Jee looked at me, his face stained with tears and liquor. I thought he would challenge me, but he didn’t.

“I screw all your ancestors!” he cursed. “I came to fight
the Russians, but I have to fight you hooligans!” He smashed the thermos on the floor. Our squad leader moaned in response to the bang, but he couldn’t sit up.

Jee was wailing. “Ah, if you’re your fathers’ sons, get up, let’s drink like men! Zheng Yuan, you said I have a tiny appetite. Come, let’s eat together.”

To our surprise, Zheng sat up and said calmly, “Miss Jee, let’s eat.” He took a bowl of rice, and so did Jee. Then they started eating.

A few of us managed to sit up watching the contest. In no time they finished the rice, but Zheng gave up and said he had a stomachache. Who wouldn’t? Everyone had already eaten many bowls.

Then Wu got up from the floor and challenged, “Miss Jee, let’s see who can eat more hot pepper.”

“All right, I’ll accompany you to your end.” Jee breathed rather heavily, his nose running.

They each had half a bowl of rice and covered it to the rim with chili powder. They mixed the white and the red together in the bowls and then set about eating. Wu moved his chopsticks slowly, while Jee gobbled with bubbling noises.

All of a sudden Jee dropped to the floor; the bowl bounced to the radiator and shattered. His legs were twisting as he turned from side to side screaming for help. We were scared, and had no idea what to do.

Song Ang got up and moved close. “What’s wrong, Jee?”

“Oh, oh I busted my stomach!”

Squad Leader Lu climbed out of bed and went up to him. “Roll over.” He helped him turn prone. “There, try to throw up. Throw up as much as you can.”

“Oh I can’t. My throat is clogged. Oh, oh —” Jee was sweating all over; his lips were purple and his face as pale as wax. Squad Leader Lu staggered out to call for an ambulance.

We were scared out of our drunkenness and gathered around, but all we could do was spread a cold, wet towel on his forehead. Meanwhile, he never stopped groaning and twitching. “Jee, are you all right?” Wu asked.

No answer. We thought he was dying. I remembered a soldier in the other recruit company who had stuffed himself to death with mutton dumplings and apples. His stomach had been as big as a basin when the doctor had taken it out.

The ambulance came and took Jee to the Regimental Infirmary. Our company’s medic went with him, while we waited anxiously to hear about his condition. Late that night we were informed that Jee was out of danger. I thought they would cut him open, but they didn’t. Instead they made him drink a lot of soybean oil to induce him to vomit, and they also gave him enemas. Though stable now, he had to be kept under observation for a few days.

Before we set out for our new units the next day, we had no chance to say good-bye to Jee. Every one of us donated a
yuan
, a sixth of our monthly allowance. Since they both were to stay at the Regimental Headquarters, Squad Leader Lu Hai and Wu Desheng would buy whatever they thought appropriate with the money and visit Jee Jun on our behalf. They were to tell him that we all would like to keep in touch with him.

The farewell dinner had provided those poetic brains with rich material for another couplet. With ease they completed the doggerel, which now went: