The Souls That Wait for Home
Written by Liu Yiduo from Fengtan Middle School, Hangzhou, China
The smoke of gunpowder has long dissolved into the mountain air, yet the wind that drifts across the ridge line still carries the cold, metallic tang of rust.
The bodies of American soldiers lie strewn across the earth at every unnatural angle. Their fading moans weave through the gusts, rising and falling like the last withered leaves clinging to autumn branches—trembling, yet never quite falling to rest.
On that frigid November 10th of 1950, high in the craggy peaks surrounding Chosin Reservoir, I seized my canteen and drank in great, gasping gulps. The water was so bitterly cold it stung like shards of ice against my teeth, and that sharp chill raced all the way down to the very tips of my toes. I stamped my boots hard against the frozen ground, and a searing pain shot through the soles of my feet.
Thank the heavens. I had marched and fought all the way from the heart of China to this desolate mountain, and against all odds, I still drew breath.
The Scope That Glinted in the Snow
A strange, unrecognizable hunk of metal lay half-buried in the frost—what we had jokingly called a "worthless fire poker" turned out to be an American-made carbine. Perched on its bolt, a dark, cylindrical sight glinted with a cold, unblinking light, like some predatory creature's eye.
I picked it up, turning it over in my numb, gloved hands again and again, but could make no sense of its clever, foreign mechanisms. I passed it to my squad leader, who lifted the rifle to his shoulder and squinted downrange. "This little telescope is no ordinary thing," he breathed. "Look—there, in the enemy trench, those American boys are fumbling to dress their own wounds!"
Our quartermaster stepped over, rapping his knuckles gently against the dark tube. "It's an infrared night sight," he said, his voice heavy with unspoken worry. "A brand-new trick the imperialists have brought over. It can lock onto a target in pitch darkness faster and surer than a hawk diving for a field mouse. This means our fight just got far harder than we ever imagined."
By the time we finished clearing the battlefield, I realized my entire chest was soaked through. The field surgeon tore open my tunic and drew in a sharp, horrified breath—nestled just below my fifth rib on the left, a bullet had come to a stop, millimeters from my heart. By some miracle, it had first slammed into the small, round flip-top mirror tucked in my breast pocket. The hard edge of the mirror had shattered the bullet's momentum, robbing it of the force that would have torn through my heart.
The glass of the mirror had splintered into a thousand tiny shards, leaving only its two dented metal frames, and the one precious black-and-white photograph I had hidden safely inside.
The girl in the picture smiled right back at me, as if she were standing there in that frozen mountain, waiting.
The Dog Tags That Called Death
Dozens of American soldiers had surrendered that day, and they were herded together to the temporary holding area of the reconnaissance battalion. Every man wore a polished stainless steel tag around his neck, etched with his name, serial number, and unit details—the thing the GIs called their "dog tag."
"If I give this up, who will even know I was here?" When we collected their personal belongings, every single prisoner clung to that small metal plate, refusing to hand it over.
Our battalion commander waved his hand gently, his tone firm but kind. "Keep them," he told them. "Treat them humanely."
We set off on the march under a warm, golden sun. The American prisoners twisted and fingered their dog tags, and the polished surfaces caught the sunlight, sending bright, dancing flashes sweeping across the snow, over and over again.
Then the sky split open with a deafening roar. Enemy fighter planes came screaming down over the ridgeline, their wings almost brushing the jagged rocks. Their heavy machine guns opened up, stuttering in a brutal, unending rhythm—rat-tat-tat.
A bullet tore into me. As I crumpled to the ground, I saw the helmet of the comrade beside me fly clean off his head, revealing a patch of charred, still-smouldering bone. The American prisoners toppled like broken dolls, their shiny dog tags now caked thick with dark, sticky blood.
Declassified reports after the war would later confirm that this entire prisoner escort route had been classified top secret. But those glinting dog tags became beacons, sending signals straight to enemy planes and guiding death right down onto our column. To make sure no sensitive information fell into our hands, the American pilots had ordered an indiscriminate massacre. They erased every life there—their own captured men, and every one of us Chinese soldiers.
The Souls That Long for Home
My body has slumbered in that frozen earth for decades, but my soul never slept.
Through all the long, brutal years of the Korean War, more than 180,000 Chinese soldiers never came home. I was one of them. Our old, beloved saying goes that a fallen leaf must return to its roots. For a man who dies far from his native soil, there is no greater mercy than to have his remains carried back to his hometown—so his family can grieve properly, and his wandering soul can finally find peace.
The azaleas on the Korean mountains bloomed and faded, year after year. The wild geese flew north, then turned south again, their cries echoing across the valleys. I waited in the quiet dark of the earth, clinging to one single, desperate hope: that one day, I would finally see my home again.
Then, in 2014, the Republic of Korea began the solemn work of excavating, identifying, and honoring the forgotten remains of our soldiers, repatriating them to China through formal, respectful diplomatic channels.
At last, that day came. A team of ROK soldiers walked to the spot where I had lain for 64 years. They cleared away the tangled brambles and thick weeds, and gently, reverently dug into the soil that had held me all those years. There, they found my bones, worn smooth by time.
"경례—Salute!" A dozen active-duty ROK soldiers stood in perfect formation, and every single one of them raised their right hand to their brow, rendering full military honors to me.
One young soldier knelt down and carefully lifted the dented little round mirror from where it rested against my bones. He flipped open the lid, slowly and gently. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the pine trees, and fell across the photograph, illuminating the girl's soft, waiting smile.
"I am sorry," he whispered, in quiet Korean. Then he bowed his head, and sank to his knees in the frost.
The full reference links to these sources
https://www.thepaper.cn/newsDetail_forward_27075871 Artist Statement:
Although I have structured a complete fictional narrative for this work, I firmly oppose all forms of warfare. I do not believe any party involved in a conflict is inherently morally superior or inferior. I am a staunch advocate for global peace and sincerely hope that humanity can one day eliminate war, hunger, preventable diseases, and systemic injustice across the planet. Every individual, regardless of their ethnic background, nationality, or religious affiliation, deserves to live in a peaceful, secure, and fulfilling environment.
The “Four Freedoms” proposed by former U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt—encompassing Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Worship, Freedom from Want, and Freedom from Fear—align with my personal values and have long guided my creative expression.
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