Beacon Fire

In the autumn of 1941, the night in Jizhong was as dark as the bottom of an upside-down pot, and even the stars were so stingy that they refused to give any more light. The wind carries the smell of loess and gunpowder smoke, and it blows on the face, making it dry and rough. Chen Abacus was blown outside Zhaojiacun by this wind. His original name was Chen Mingyuan, and he was a quartermaster of the national army. Now his team was broken up and his serial number was gone. All he had left was the quarters book in his arms, which had curled corners and was blackened by gunfire, and a brain that was shrewder than abacus beads. He was lying in the ditch at the entrance of the village, like a frightened groundhog, with his ears cocked, listening to what was going on in the village. Except for a few sporadic dog barks, it was so quiet that it was disconcerting. "If there is calmness, it means there are no Japanese." He muttered in his heart, his slender body pressed against the ground and moved forward little by little. His abacus rattled in his mind: He still had half a bag of coarse salt pulled out from the pile of dead people. In this day and age, he was stronger than Guangyang, so he should be able to live in peace for a few days.