Carrying the Flag from Huyu Island to Beijing

In the first year of the Xinghuo calendar, the gunboats of the Haiyan Army blasted the river mouth. On the Huyu Fort, thirty-seven soldiers and an eighteen-year-old cook guarded an old dragon flag that had been washed white. Before he died, the old flag-bearer put the corner of the flag into the cook's hand: "When the flag is there, the people are there. When the flag falls, the people die." From that day on, Chen Sanqi began to carry the flag. This is one hundred and eighty-seven years. Carrying the flag, he walked through occupied provincial capitals, burned-out villages, and icy river banks. The people around me changed one after another, and the corners of the flag became bald and then mended, and then mended and bald again. Agui, Mr. He, Lao Li, Master Zheng and Erzhu came and left one by one. Everyone thought he was a bragging veteran. No one knew that there was a voice in his head that had been ringing for one hundred and eighty-seven years. No one knew why he stood up straight every time the flag on the capital city tower was raised. Where the flag is, the people are there.