The Old Barracks Silently Bears the Glory, Dreams, and Sweat of Generations of Officers and Soldiers

Old Barracks ■ Long Jiale

Beneath the setting sun, the old barracks of a certain company of the People's Armed Police Zibo Detachment stands in quiet stillness. Built in the 1980s, its mottled, peeling walls, worn-smooth doorsteps, and deep-grooved brickwork silently bear the glory, dreams, and sweat of generations of officers and soldiers. Now, those officers and soldiers are about to bid it farewell and move into new barracks.

Walking slowly through the compound, my gaze drifts across the sentry post, the drill ground, the vegetable garden, the dormitories — the loyalty, striving, camaraderie, and warmth of home that have settled into every corner gradually blur my vision.

I gently push open the door of the honors room, and the company's glorious history rushes to meet me. Medals, commendations, and trophies fill the display in abundance. Inside a glass case, a rust-spotted hoe, wrapped in the weight of years, pulls my thoughts back forty years.

At the time, the company's construction faced enormous difficulties due to tight funding. To cut costs, all officers and soldiers worked as one — leveling ground, hauling bricks, carrying sand, spreading cement. The sun blazed overhead, dust filled the air, sweat soaked through their clothes and dried into patches of salt frost. Driven by that spirit of hard striving, the barracks rose from the ground in just half a year. After the main structure was completed, the officers and soldiers took up their hoes again, breaking new ground, building walls, and cultivating seedlings, achieving self-sufficiency in vegetables and fruit.

Without realizing it, I had drawn near the sentry post at the compound gate, where a bugle of dull, darkened color caught my eye. Through long stretches of time, it had again and again greeted the morning sun and roused the sleeping barracks; again and again reminded soldiers of regular routines, urged them to sharpen their arms and feed their horses (厉兵秣马), and called them to charge into battle.

Now, though the years have stripped it of its former luster, the company still places it solemnly beside the duty position. It reminds the sentries at every moment: stay vigilant, defend the homeland!

In the Fourth Squad dormitory, I met old squad leader Sun Zhonghui. When the subject of the move came up, he was overcome with feeling: "Before we got word of the move, I always longed to live in new barracks. Now that the move is actually here, I can't bring myself to let go of this old place."

Sun Zhonghui recalled that when he first joined the company, conditions were hard — there was no running water, and all water for daily use had to be pumped and stored. In winter, heating water was no easy matter, and hot water was precious. Squad leader Hu Xuguang always rushed to wash up and clean with bone-chilling cold water, saving the hot water for the new soldiers. His large, rough hands were cracked all across the backs — it was painful just to look at them.

Squad leader Hu was also skilled with a needle and thread; most of the mending in the squad fell on his shoulders. Each time he helped everyone sew and patch their clothes, he would wet the thread end with the tip of his tongue, give it a twist between his fingers, pass it through the needle, and then fly through the stitching — quick and steady.

Homesickness is the hardest thing every new soldier endures. For a stretch of time after lights out, Sun Zhonghui would toss and turn through the night, unable to sleep. Squad leader Hu noticed, came and sat on the edge of his bunk, and said: "Little Sun, missing home, aren't you? In a few days, your squad leader has a surprise for you." A few mornings later, a stone appeared on the grass in front of the mess hall, with the character "home" (家) carved into it in vivid red. Officers and soldiers gathered around, trading remarks: "There was no stone carving here yesterday, was there?" "Who carved this?" Only Sun Zhonghui, staring at the stone, felt his throat tighten, and for a long while could not find words.

The evening breeze moved through the corridors, and a few low, muffled barks drifted over. Following the sound, I looked and saw, beside the stone carved with the character "home," an old dog lying quietly, its silhouette merging with the dusk. Its name was "Xiaobei." It had accompanied the old barracks for more than ten years — its years of service longer than those of many currently serving officers and soldiers. Years ago, the company had brought in a puppy to strengthen sentry duties. When it first arrived at the compound, it ran curiously everywhere, lively and bounding with joy. As the days passed one by one, Xiaobei gradually grew familiar with its duty position. Whether in scorching summer or bitter winter, it always followed close on the heels of the officers and soldiers, heading to the sentry post.

Its mission fulfilled, Xiaobei was honorably retired. The officers and soldiers could not bear to send this old comrade-in-arms away, and so kept it in the compound to care for it. Now it is blind in both eyes, its steps unsteady; it no longer runs, and often lies in silence in its kennel. Perhaps it has forgotten the faces of the generations of officers and soldiers who have come and gone, but the all-too-familiar "soldier smell" (兵味) and the sound of sharp, clear calls remind it at every moment: home is still that "home," and the soldiers are still those "soldiers."

As the development of the unit's construction has advanced, the old barracks can no longer support the unit's missions or the needs of its officers and soldiers. After careful deliberation, the detachment made the decision to build new barracks.

The evening breeze passed through, and the poplar leaves rustled softly overhead, as if whispering their farewells. Reaching the compound gate, I stopped and looked back. The outline of the old barracks faded bit by bit into the dusk. All was still and silent — only at the nearest sentry post, a young figure stood perfectly straight.