My family has had military personnel since my grandfather's generation.

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My family has a military tradition dating back to my grandfather's generation. I'm not bragging; from the War of Resistance Against Japan to the Sino-Vietnamese War, there wasn't a single war our
family not only combat heroes, but also two revolutionary martyrs. Perhaps it's
hereditary, or perhaps it's because I grew up in a military compound
,
but my yearning for the military was exceptionally strong. So, after attending university for a few months, I disregarded my father's strong objections and took a leave of absence. I then went alone to the armed forces department. Actually, the conscription period had long passed, but the people there, after looking at my resume,
had me fill out a form without a word, and gave me a winter training uniform, rubber boots, a blanket, backpack straps, and other
miscellaneous items.
When I got home, my father saw what I had. Having been a soldier for half his life, he naturally knew what it meant, but
he was surprisingly calm. He simply cooked me a table full of dishes and brought
out .
During the meal, my father remained silent, only asking me one last time near the end:
"Are you really decided?" I nodded. My father sighed and said that the men of the Jin family were destined to wear military uniforms
. He had thought that my son, having studied art, wouldn't have to join the army, but it turned out he was still the same.
So, I became a soldier. The day I left Shenyang, it was raining. My friends all came to see me off
. Sitting in the train carriage, I stared silently out the window. Lao Tong pressed his face against the window and shouted, "Write us a letter!" I
nodded. Kai Zi took out a game console, pressed it against the window, and shouted with tears
in his eyes, "Da Jun, come back when you're on leave, let's play Thunder and Lightning together!" Hearing this, I
couldn't help but cry. The train rattled and clattered, taking me somewhere, and then, disoriented, I was hauled onto a tarpaulin-covered
truck turning left and right, not knowing where I was, until I got off the truck carrying a quilt and a washbasin, only to find
myself in a ravine. Although I was somewhat prepared, I was still completely stunned.
Then began three months of basic training. I had just turned eighteen that year.
What kind of discipline can you expect from a teenager studying music? I suffered
a lot because of this during basic training.
There's an old saying in the army: new recruits fear the whistle, old soldiers fear the bugle. I experienced the power of the whistle in just two days. They blew the whistle four times
in one night causing four emergency assemblies. We new recruits were so tired we just wanted
to sleep in our clothes with our backpacks packed, but that was absolutely forbidden by discipline. The suffering was immense.
It's true that people are incredibly adaptable. About one-fifth of our batch
were from the city, and this group was a mixed bag. Rumor has it there were sons of CEOs and
grandsons , but we had no idea who they were. At the beginning, this group of people, including myself, were all incredibly arrogant and pampered
. Some even took five minutes to run the 400-meter obstacle course. However,
under the relentless scolding and stern kicks from the squad leaders, they all took on the appearance of soldiers within a week. They understood what discipline meant, and their performance improved by
leaps and bounds . Take the 400-meter obstacle course, for example; the best one could run it in under one minute and ten seconds.
Because I had trained with the members of the August 1st Team led by my father since I was a child, I had a relatively good physical foundation.
Therefore, I could handle those physical tasks with ease, and my results were quite good. According to the squad leader, some of my scores in
certain subjects were among the best in the regiment.
What I found most painful was standing at attention. Standing for hours under the scorching sun, unable to move an inch, while
the sergeant constantly circled behind, occasionally nudging my knees in the back of my legs.
If I lost focus even slightly and didn't keep my legs taut, this would send me tumbling down. I was even worse off, because I often switched legs to relax while slacking off, so the sergeant
's knees repeatedly sent me crashing to my knees. Once that happened, I was guaranteed two hundred push-ups
. At first, I struggled to finish them all, and by mealtime I couldn't even hold a spoon. But
later became more resilient; I could do four hundred, let alone two hundred. I could still slack off as usual, and the sergeant couldn't do anything about it.
Near the end of basic training, something happened to me. At that time, it was my turn to help in the mess hall. The
mess hall Old Wang, was from Fushun, which, in military parlance, meant we were practically fellow villagers. Plus, he had just
become a volunteer soldier that year and was in a great mood, so he took great care of me. He often asked our squad leader to take
me to his place for a drink in the evenings. As a new recruit, I didn't dare drink alcohol, but I did eat meat—I'd been craving meat since basic training
.
That day, people from the division came to inspect our regiment, and the regiment asked the mess hall to prepare. Old Wang
told our squad leader that the mess hall was busy and pulled me along to help. After working for half a day, he gave me some money and told me to go to a town near the base
to buy some things to prepare for the evening's feast. So I rode his old, beat-up bicycle, trudging along the way.
After buying my things, I was about to head back to the regiment when I suddenly noticed a large crowd gathered ahead. Being young and curious
, I went to take a look. What I saw instantly ignited my anger. It turned out a few
shady young men were harassing two female soldiers wearing military trousers and civilian clothes. Why was I so sure they were female soldiers
? Because they were both wearing the black rubber boots issued by the army. These weren't sold locally, and even if they were, girls
wouldn't wear them because they were considered too ugly.
The two female soldiers were on the verge of tears, but they were surrounded by several burly thugs and couldn't get away. Without a word, I
barged in, grabbed the two female soldiers, and tried to pull them away—I didn't want to fight with the local people; discipline forbade it.
But would those thugs, who had been humiliated, let us go? Before I could take two steps, I was blocked. A
man in his early thirties shoved my head hard, causing me to stumble and even have my training cap pulled off
.
I held back, pulling the female soldier along as we walked away. The man came up and slapped me hard again, this time
cursing, "You stinking soldier, get the hell out of here!"
I still endured it, picked up my training cap, put it on, and said to the man, "Brother, you can hit me, but don't
harass them. They're soldiers."
The guy laughed, "Soldiers? So what if they're soldiers? I've never even had my hands on a female soldier before! Come on,
little soldier, let me see if your breasts and butts are the same as ours..."
I was furious, completely enraged. Nearly three months of basic training had not only begun to mold me
into a soldier, but had also instilled in me an extremely strong sense of honor. Cursing was acceptable, but insulting soldiers was something I
couldn't tolerate.
So I struck, slapping the guy hard across the face, silencing his next words.
Then I took another hard blow to the head—I don't know if it was a brick or something, but I'm sure it was a brick,
because after I fell to the ground, I grabbed one and got up to start swinging it at the group. If I'd
taken that blow to the head now, I'd probably be half-dead or paralyzed, but at the time, I was fine, not even a
mild concussion or anything, just a little blood.
But that little bit of blood still went berserk. According to Xiaodan—one of the female soldiers,
one of the female protagonists in this story—I was like a madwoman, absolutely ruthless, but very
swift. A few bricks and those guys were lying on the street, bleeding profusely, fighting with a methodical approach,
as if they'd been trained. Don't let her status as a female soldier fool you; she has some eyesight, at the very least she's trained in military boxing. But
heaven knows what kind of training I'd received; it was all just impulsiveness.
After the fight, I calmly flagged down a three-wheeled motorcycle, helped the two female soldiers onto it, and then
packed my things and rode back to the regiment.
I didn't dare tell anyone about my head injury; I just put some tissues on the wound and covered it with my hat.
Fortunately, the bleeding stopped quickly. When I took off my hat at dinner, no one noticed.
As I left the mess hall, I saw a dark-skinned, thin lieutenant standing at the officers' mess hall. He stared at me
for a long time .
I didn't think much of it; there were so many officers in the regiment, I knew who he was.
But I saw him again at the regimental headquarters the next day.
I was standing in formation on the parade ground when my squad leader suddenly came over and told me to step out of line, saying the regimental commander wanted to see me. I was
stunned: even the company commander hadn't spoken to me, and the regimental commander wanted to see me! What was going on?
As soon as I entered the regimental headquarters, I understood. It turned out that one of the people I had fought the day before, along with several locals, had arrived
. The guy's head was wrapped in a thick layer of bandages. I calmed down—I was in the right, after all.
There weren't many troops stationed there, and since I was wearing an unranked uniform, they quickly found out what
was going on. So these guys came to the unit demanding that they deal with me.
The regimental commander listened to my report with a grim face, then glared at the bandaged man—commanders
in field units always trusted their subordinates implicitly, and even though I was a new recruit, our commander believed me.
After I finished speaking, the man shouted that I was lying; they hadn't harassed any female soldiers or insulted
any soldiers. He claimed I had hit someone with my bicycle and then attacked them with a brick.
He brought a group of so-called witnesses, but I didn't have a single one. Plus, the regiment had to consider the relationship between the military and civilians—
one of these people was some kind of secretary. Under their insistence, the regimental commander reluctantly announced his
decision on the spot: one month of solitary confinement and a warning.
I knew this action was against military regulations; dealing with soldiers' issues required consulting superiors,
and a month-long confinement was definitely against regulations. But I knew it was for my own good, because those
guys had been demanding the regimental commander and political commissar discharge me, while the regimental commander said this was the highest
decision the regimental headquarters could make, and discharge required the division's approval. Those guys wouldn't let it go, saying they'd
complain to the division.
At this moment, the black-clad lieutenant who had been silent spoke up: "I'll testify."
The regimental commander was taken aback: "Old Wei?"
"Yes, I was there yesterday, I saw it all. This soldier is right, and..." The lieutenant
pointed to the bandaged thug: "I also know the female soldier they were harassing, she's from the division's communications battalion."
The thug immediately jumped up, pointing at the lieutenant and cursing, and the others joined in,
even threatening to say they knew a certain high-ranking officer in our army and that he could deal with us filthy soldiers who were in cahoots.
The regimental commander tried to slam his fist on the table several times, but the political commissar stopped him. The lieutenant listened quietly to their tirade until
finally saying, "You should go back, or we'll hand this over to the police. By the way,
so-and-so is my comrade-in-arms." Those men immediately quieted down; it seemed so-and-so was a tough character.
The matter was resolved—the regiment paid those guys medical expenses. But my
punishment remained unchanged; my confinement was reduced from a month to three days. So I spent three days in a single room, which was
torture. For three days, I ate, drank, and relieved myself in that less than four-square-meter cell, without even a moment's rest
.
After leaving confinement, everything was the same. Soon it was time for the recruit training assessment. I did my platoon leader proud, ranking fifth
in military skills. The overall evaluation results weren't announced yet, but my platoon leader said I didn't even make the top thirty—because my
messy room dragged me down. I've never been fond of making my room perfectly square like a brick;
I've never folded my blankets before.
Next came the receiving of ranks. That day, when we received our cap badges and collar insignia, about a hundred of us young men
cried our eyes out. Those who haven't served in the military can't possibly understand that feeling. Wearing our newly issued winter
uniforms with shoulder tags and collar insignia, we swore an oath to the military flag. We were truly filled with patriotic fervor, feeling that as long as the motherland gave the order, we wouldn't flinch, daring to face any danger. This isn't me praising myself here; that's really what I felt at the time. As I always say, those who haven't served in the military won't understand. 　　Then they assigned us privates to companies. I was assigned to the reconnaissance company. When , I learned that the black-clad lieutenant who testified for me was the reconnaissance company commander, surnamed Wei. 　　Company Commander Wei told me that he chose me because I fought with discipline and ruthlessness, and because reconnaissance soldiers often operate behind enemy lines during wartime. Courage, a clear head, and the willingness to act are the most basic qualities. 　　So I became a reconnaissance soldier and began training a hundred times more brutal than basic training. Reconnaissance soldiers need to master many basic skills. Besides basic army subjects like marching, military posture, full-armed weighted cross-country training, they also need to master close combat, vehicle driving, high-speed vehicle capture, basic climbing, multi-skill shooting, video and photographic reconnaissance and so on. In less than a month, my once clean, piano-playing hands became dark and rough. 　　This article is not a military article, so the focus is not on these topics related to troop training. The following is the main topic; the above is just necessary background information. 　　Two months later, the company commander announced that the reconnaissance company would undergo a preliminary assessment because the army group's reconnaissance soldiers were highly skilled in combat.

The competition was fast approaching, and the division had given a strict order to win the championship banner this year. The regiment had decided
to conduct monthly assessments starting this month. After Wei Lian finished speaking, the political instructor gave another pep talk, concluding
his speech, delivered in Cantonese-accented Mandarin, amidst enthusiastic applause and resounding slogans from the soldiers.
Afterwards, Wei Lian spoke to me privately, asking if it was true that I had studied composition at a music academy before joining the army. I
said of course, and the company commander patted me on the shoulder, repeatedly saying, "Good job, little Jinzi! This time, it's all up to you! You have
to make our regiment proud!" I was puzzled. No matter how good I was, I was still a new recruit, far behind the squad leaders
. How could I possibly be the one to make the regiment proud in such a big event as the competition?
The company commander said it wasn't about the competition; I wasn't qualified yet. He was referring to the army group's cultural performance
.
Then it dawned on me. The company commander mentioned the death order again, saying that the regimental commander and political commissar said our regiment
is determined to win . We have two trump cards: a chorus and you. You'd better prepare
an earth-shattering performance, or you'll face military law.
People might not understand the soldiers' thirst for honor. Their competitive spirit is completely ingrained in
their blood. Not only do different units fiercely compete in military subjects, but even in hygiene competitions
, they fight tooth and nail, with a "do or die" mentality.
This explains why there are so many propaganda teams, cultural troupes, and sports teams in the military—these are all
important means of gaining exposure and honor.
Still don't understand? So I went to watch the inter-company singing competitions, where soldiers would shout and sing together
, taking turns between companies. At first, it was a competition of who sang better and knew more songs, but eventually it usually came down to who could shout
the loudest. Imagine, even something as trivial as volume was being compared! So, the highly publicized cultural performance
was even more of a spectacle.
Thus, under the regiment's high regard, I began what was supposed to be composing. Even regular training was suspended,
and I was tasked with focusing on writing to make a splash at the performance.
I was locked in the barracks, racking my brains, trying to figure out how to make a name for myself. The result was that I decided to write a
song to sing at the performance. But what about the instruments? A piano was definitely out of the question, and an electronic keyboard was out of the question too—the troupe
didn't have the funds. At the time, campus folk songs were popular locally, so I wanted to create a military folk song. I asked the troupe
to buy me a guitar. They said it was a good idea and supported it, but the assistant troupe member refused to pay, saying there were no funds. He even
asked if I could use an erhu instead. I was both amused and exasperated. I complained to the troupe leader, who was furious and slammed his fist on the table, but there was nothing the leader could do
. Assistant troupe member Liu was a stubborn man, and the leader couldn't sway him. So, he took out
150 me the money.
Taking advantage of Sunday's rest, I borrowed Old Wang's beat-up car and rushed to the county town to buy a red cottonwood guitar.
The melody was easy to write, but the lyrics were difficult. Just as I was scratching my head over the lyrics, a letter from Zhao Liang of Class 3 reminded me .
Hadn't Li Chunbo written a letter home? Why not just copy it? And so, within three days,
my first truly meaningful composition was born.
Soon the day of the performance arrived, and our company was selected as the regiment's representative to attend
the performance held in the military region's auditorium. Ah, the military is always the same, no matter where they go. During a break at the beginning of the performance,
various units directly under the army group took turns shouting, the soldiers singing at the top of their lungs, afraid of being outdone by
the other units. The entire auditorium trembled under their voices. It only calmed down when the performance began.
My performance was sixth. Sitting backstage, with my face painted red, I hugged my guitar
and hummed my song over and over
in my head, my stomach churning—I was nervous! How could a greenhorn like me not be nervous about such a heavy task? Besides, there were thousands of eyes watching. I'd never experienced anything like this before
.
I didn't even know what the previous performances were; I was just too nervous. It wasn't until the stage manager pulled me that I
realized it was my turn. In a panic, I grabbed my guitar and marched to the center of the stage—
where two microphones were set up and a chair was placed.
The audience was completely silent. I looked around and saw a sea of black crew cuts—all soldiers like myself.
So I wasn't nervous anymore, really not nervous.
I saluted and sat down. All of this had been arranged beforehand;
the people from the military region's propaganda department had repeatedly reminded us not to forget the salute, knowing that the audience included not only soldiers but also leaders from
local .
After a few arpeggios, my singing began, carried through the microphone and loudspeakers
to every corner of the auditorium:
"Mom, Mom, how are you?
I received your letter yesterday.
Don't worry, don't be sad,
your son is doing well in the army.
Eating well, sleeping well,
and even growing taller!
Mom, Mom, please take care of yourself,
or your son will worry about you in the army.
Although I stand on guard duty every day with a gun
, I think of home all the time,
thinking of you , Mom.
Mom, do you know, I was praised yesterday!
My squad leader even said that next year I can go home to see you!"
Oh, Mother, Mother,
your son didn't feel any hardship or fatigue at all.
Wearing this uniform, I've never regretted it.
Because I know
this is my duty to my country…
From today's perspective, this hardly qualifies as lyrics; it's pure colloquialism. But I know I can never
write anything like it again—because I no longer have that feeling.
At the end, I realized tears were streaming down my face. Amidst thunderous applause, I stood up,
saluted the brothers who were standing and clapping loudly, and marched off,
my face flushed with embarrassment at the thought of crying in front of everyone…
But after I went down, the brothers in my company all said it was good, and that they had also cried, etc. I didn't believe them at all; they
must comforting me. It wasn't until later, when Xiaodan told me, that I believed her. She said she had cried in the audience too
, and that several male soldiers from the next company had burst into tears, calling out "Mama, Mama!"
As a result, I brought honor to our division. The army group's propaganda team and a bunch of professional and semi-professional performers from the military region's cultural troupe
all put on performances, but I still beat them—first place!!
The division commander threw a celebration banquet that day—he couldn't be unhappy, this was the first time in history that our division had shown
such prominence in the performance; we had never even made it into the top ten before. The division commander was a little drunk, his dark face turning
red and purple. He grabbed my hand and kept thanking me, then patted my shoulder repeatedly, making me wince, but I still had to stand
ramrod straight. No matter how great a merit a private has, he can't be presumptuous in front of his superiors.
The division commander also took a group photo with a bunch of officers and me holding up the banner. I still keep that photo to this day—
surrounded by a group of officers in general's uniforms, a dark-skinned private
stood in the middle, holding a bright red and gold banner to his chest, grinning foolishly, his smile extremely unnatural, and showing off his big yellow teeth—I have tetracycline-stained teeth.

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My family has had military personnel since my grandfather's generation.

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