Listen! The Song of Sentinel Duty Soaring Above the Clouds
■ Song Xiaoli, Chen Weijing
On the eve of "August 1st," officers and soldiers at the Tibet Military District's Zhannangxie Post climb toward a position at an altitude of more than 5,000 meters. Photo by Zuo Yu
At Zhannangxie Post, officers and soldiers sit gathered around the "Heroes' Platform" composing a song. Photo by Zuo Yu
On the eve of "August 1st," at the Tibet Military District's Zhannangxie Post, situated at an altitude of 4,655 meters, frost and wind still cover the ground. In the study room, Political Instructor Pan stood before the blackboard and voiced an idea he had long been turning over: "Let's write a song that belongs to our post."
The soldiers below exchanged glances, their eyes flickering with anticipation. Second-Class Staff Sergeant Zhao Baosheng scratched his head and muttered under his breath: "Write a song? I'm fine shouting slogans with this big voice of mine, but don't even mention writing songs—I can't even sing in tune." That remark seemed to strike a chord with many—for soldiers who garrison the summit of a snow-capped mountain year-round, writing a song, that "romantic thing," seemed far, far removed from their daily life of guarding the border.
Political Instructor Pan did not rush to rally everyone. He walked to the window, his gaze settling on the distant, unbroken line of snow mountains, and after a brief pause said to them all: "Our daily patrols, training, and duty shifts—we record all of that in the sentinel log every day. But have you ever thought about this: those feelings that suddenly drift through your mind during a patrol or while standing watch, the longing and the worry for those you hold dear; the snow lotus flowers blooming in summer, the sound of the wind passing through the post in autumn, the starry sky you gaze up at while standing night watch in winter... these fragments of our time here—shouldn't we preserve them in some way?"
"Why do I propose writing a song? Because up here above the clouds, beyond the rifles and the mission, there is also our sincere love for the motherland." Those words fell like a seed, planted in every heart.
The next day, a cardboard box appeared in the corridor, bearing the words: "Lyrics Collection Box—Write Down Your Sentinel Reflections." Political Instructor Pan was the first to write a line and drop it in: "I look at the motherland through my binoculars, and the motherland looks back at me through the lens."
Snow began to fall over the post without warning. Private First Class Han Jianqiao and his comrades completed a grueling patrol, passing through "Tiger's Mouth"—the most treacherous stretch of cliff face, with a sheer drop of ten thousand zhang on one side and a steep slope on the other where snow could slide down at any moment. When they returned to the post, Han Jianqiao shook the snowflakes from his shoulders, skipped the oxygen and the rest, and walked straight to the box to slip in a folded piece of paper.
During a late-night watch, Private Zi Jie once again gazed up at the stars. At over 4,600 meters above sea level, the night sky above the snow mountains seemed close enough to touch with an outstretched hand. After coming off duty, he wrote by lamplight: "The stars over Zhannangxie are so bright, so bright—every single star represents a heart standing guard." The cook Chilie Duoji's reflection was plain and sincere: "Someone has to watch over the border line, and someone has to watch over the stove."
The slips of paper accumulated, the handwriting ranging from neat to clumsy, some hurried, some careful. Every one of them carried the distinctive breath of Zhannangxie Post.
One weekend evening, everyone sat gathered in the study room. The box was placed in the center. Political Instructor Pan drew out slips at random and read them aloud one by one. The love for the motherland buried deep in the heart, the heroic resolve to hold the cloud-top post, the boundless longing for family far away... line by line, like notes on a staff, they strung together the inner melody of those who keep the watch.
At the most moving passages, the room fell so quiet that only breathing remained; at the most harrowing ones, everyone smiled knowingly; when homesickness came through, some silently turned to look out the window—beyond the snow mountains lay home, lay family.
The lyrics were there, but the melody posed a new problem. As it happened, regimental cultural cadre Wang Jiaqi had come to the post for a research visit and agreed to help them compose the music. He also offered a suggestion: "The sound of snow falling and the sound of patrol footsteps that you hear every day—these are the musical notes of time; put them in the background and they will surely enrich this song."
In the days that followed, every patrol saw someone checking the battery on a voice recorder. The crisp ring of an ice axe striking an ice wall, the heavy breathing on a steep slope, the muffled thud of snow sliding off the roof, the whistle of morning assembly, the sound of a guitar played on weekends—all of it was now carefully captured by the soldiers and made part of the melody.
Political Instructor Pan already had a plan: to let this song be sung forever. "Starting from this 'August 1st,' we'll sing it on the patrol route, we'll sing it when we miss home... let the fragments of our vigil be woven into the melody and become our shared memory of youth."
At dawn, accompanied by the spirited sound of singing, the patrol detachment once again set out in full gear. The door swung open; snow reached the ankles; the white vapor of each breath instantly crystallized into a frost-mist that clung to eyebrows.
Below the post's mountain, snow lotus flowers are blooming again. This song lives in the sound of flowers opening, in the sound of snow falling, in the sound of steadfast footsteps on watch...