Che Xiaoyang could have lived quietly as a wealthy man on Wall Street.
He had attended four military academies and had eight billion dollars to his name. By any normal person's standards, he should have bought a mansion in America, driven a sports car, married a blonde, and lived out his life in comfort.
But then a telegram arrived. Six words:
The Battle of Shanghai has begun. Return at once.
That evening, Che Xiaoyang stood on the observation deck at West Point, watching the Hudson flow south.
The sunset set the river ablaze in dark red, just like the flag that had once flown over the walls of his hometown county seat.
McCormick stood beside him and asked, What are you going back for?
He said nothing.
He only remembered something the headmaster had told him on graduation day, patting him on the shoulder. He had carried those words with him for twelve years, from Guangzhou to Moscow, from Berlin to West Point.
He could no longer recall the exact wording, but he had never forgotten what they meant.
What had you learned all this for?
Later, McCormick told people about that day. He said it was the first time he had seen something flash in Che Xiaoyang's eyes. Just for an instant, like a light being switched off and then on again. Then it was gone.
The next day, Che Xiaoyang found McCormick and said the most uncharacteristic thing he'd ever said:
"Get me enough equipment for twelve divisions. I'm going home."
