On April 18, 1949, I traveled through time.
Opening his eyes, a hemp rope was put around his neck - grabbing the strong man.
To the north of the Yangtze River, the army was defeated like a mountain; to the south of the Yangtze River, gold yuan coupons were too hard to wipe the butt.
I became a porter at the lowest level of the national army.
The only advantage: I know the history.
I knew that the Yangtze River defense line collapsed in three days, that Commander Tang could not hold Shanghai, that there was only one way of retreat in Xiamen, that going to Taiwan would mean death, staying on the mainland would mean death, and surrendering would not end well in the future.
I also know that the only way to survive is south of Zhennanguan.
An unsystematic time traveler, with 500 remaining soldiers, retreated to Phu Quoc Island in French Vietnam.
Malaria, hunger, the guns of the French army, the informants of Taiwanese political workers - the word "death" is written on every level.
But I survived.
From a young man to a platoon leader, from a platoon leader to the head of an isolated island, he finally became an invisible giant on a high-rise building in Taipei overlooking the strait.
I am not loyal to any party, I am only loyal to - leading my brothers to survive.
