Zhijiang Duck

No duck no Mid-fall festival

Since I left Zhijiang in 1978 to go to college, although I haven’t eaten all the famous Chinese and foreign dishes, I have tasted many famous and unknown dishes, and I have also eaten in many Western-style restaurants in the United States. But what I miss most in the past twenty years is the Zhijiang duck on August 15th in my hometown. Every August 15th, it is the traditional Midfall Festival in China, the squeaking sound of the duck being fried in every house comes to my mind countless times, the tangy duck fragrance, the soft duck meat, the green onions full of duck juice, and the toothless little brother. The naive attitude of chewing on a big duck leg...

In my hometown of Zhijiang, Hunan, where I spent my childhood and youth, besides eating mooncakes on the Mid-Autumn Festival on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month, we also eat duck. For the people of Zhijiang, the duck feast on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month is second only to the reunion dinner on Chinese New Year. Family members living far away will rush back home to Zhijiang to eat the Zhijiang duck for Mid-Autumn Festival and reunite with their families. In Zhijiang, every household will prepare Zhijiang duck. If a family doesn't know how to make Zhijiang duck, they must be newcomers who just moved from elsewhere. But within two years, they will surely become skilled in making Zhijiang duck. For someone from Zhijiang not to eat Zhijiang duck on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month must be because they cannot return home. Even if they are away, the thing they most want to eat for Mid-Autumn Festival is Zhijiang duck. For the people of Zhijiang, whether or not they eat mooncakes on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month doesn't matter, but not eating duck would be a huge regret. Not eating duck means they haven't really celebrated Mid-Autumn Festival. Young men must bring a few ducks to their future mother-in-law's house before Mid-Autumn Festival, or else their engagement might be called off.

 

Duck Farming

"April 8, freeze the ducks." Every year after the eighth day of the fourth lunar month, in every street and alley of Zhijiang, duck vendors carry bamboo baskets about four feet in diameter that resemble steamer baskets, inside which are newly hatched fluffy ducklings covered with black gauze. Each basket can hold dozens of ducklings, with two baskets per load, and vendors can carry up to a hundred ducklings. You can hear the ducklings chirping from tens of meters away. Farmers buy hundreds or even thousands of ducklings. During the day, farmers wear bamboo hats and straw raincoats, tie a chicken feather duster to the front end of a two or three-meter-long bamboo pole, and drive the ducks to paddy fields, reservoirs, or small rivers to feed on insects, grass, and microorganisms. If any duckling falls behind or doesn't follow commands and runs around, the farmer will extend the bamboo pole and gently stroke the little one back with the feather duster. In the evening, farmers gather the ducklings on the grass and feed them grains or bran. They build a simple stove with stones and cook their meals. Then they set up tents and sleep by the duck enclosure. Some share a tent, while others sleep alone. They endure wind, rain, and sun exposure, living alongside the ducks day and night. With plenty of insects to eat in spring, along with sufficient grain and bran feed, the ducks grow rapidly each day. Their fluffy yellow feathers gradually fade, and curly feathers start to grow out. By the end of July, after harvesting early rice, farmers drive the semi-grown ducks into the fields to pick up scattered grains. This is when the ducks grow the fastest.

 

 

Ducks eat insects, and small fish in the rice field

 

Approaching Mid-Autumn Festival, the ducks weigh over a kilogram, the female ducks haven't started quacking yet, and the male ducks' wing feathers haven't fully grown. Farmers tie straw around the ducks' legs, put them in baskets, and transport them to towns or markets to sell to prospective buyers preparing for the festival. Almost every household buys ducks, with each buying at least one and most buying two or three.

 

Roasting Duck

To make Zhijiang duck, besides raising ducklings from that year, you also need Zhijiang-produced field sauce, freshly harvested ginger, and green onions. On the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month after breakfast, the housewives get busy. First, boil a large pot of water. Then take a bowl, put some cold water in it, add salt, and use it to kill the duck, collecting the blood in the bowl. Put the duck in a basin, scald it with boiling water to remove the feathers, and pluck the down when it cools slightly. Open the belly, remove the internal organs, and keep the duck liver. Use scissors to cut open the duck's gizzard, remove the dirty stuff inside, peel off the yellow membrane, sprinkle some salt, rub it, and rinse it with water. Cut the duck intestines into two-inch pieces. Cut off the duck's head and legs, and cut the rest into pieces. Slice the freshly harvested ginger, slice the chili peppers, wash two or three Jin (1.1 lbs.) of green onions, and tie them into knots. Pick a dozen or so fresh Sichuan peppercorn leaves and wash them. Zhijiang people like to use Sichuan peppercorn leaves for cooking. For example, when stewing dog meat, frying lamb, or cooking duck, they will use Sichuan peppercorn leaves. Although Sichuan peppercorns are an essential spice for many dishes, they are not sold in the market. Because many households have Sichuan peppercorn trees, if you need them, just ask the owner, and they will surely let you pick some. If the owner is not around, and some Sichuan peppercorn trees extend beyond the fence, feel free to pick some leaves; no one will object.

Set up the stove, heat the oil, add the field sauce when the oil is hot. Sauté the duck head and legs, add the sliced ginger and chili peppers, stir-fry briefly, add the duck pieces, and stir-fry over high heat. Add the coagulated duck blood to thicken the sauce. Add salt and soy sauce. After the duck is fragrant, add water and Sichuan peppercorn leaves, and simmer over low heat. If you have chestnuts, add one or two jin of peeled chestnuts, which would be even better. Simmer for several hours until the duck meat is tender. Ten minutes before removing from the heat, add the green onions. Once the green onions are cooked, the dish is ready. If you walk down the street in the afternoon on Mid-Autumn Festival, you'll catch a whiff of duck fragrance escaping from the cracks in every household's door. Some even set up small charcoal stoves at the door and cook duck openly on the street. It's hard not to drool. If you meet friends, you'll definitely be warmly invited to taste their duck. Children often can't wait and run to the neighbors who have already cooked duck to ask for a big duck leg to gnaw on.

 

 

Once the duck is stewed, it's served in a large bowl with the soup, placed on the table. Stir-fry one or two side dishes, open a bottle of white wine, and gather around the table with the family for this traditional annual duck feast. Some set up the table outside and enjoy the moon after eating the duck. The big duck leg is for the youngest children who couldn't wait any longer. Duck heads and bottoms used to be specifically given to the elderly as a sign of respect. It implies eating from head to tail. However, most people no longer adhere to this custom because there's not much meat on the duck head, and the elderly can't gnaw on it. But in some rural areas, this etiquette is still observed. Everyone's favorite is the thick gravy-soaked green onion knot, bursting with flavor in every bite. If chestnuts are added, they absorb the duck gravy and become tender and fragrant, very delicious. The tender and spicy stewed duck meat is delicious. Enjoying a few cups of good wine with family and chatting is true reunion, true Mid-Autumn Festival for the people of Zhijiang.

 

From Ancient Legend to Modern Legend

Why do the people of Zhijiang eat duck on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month? Since when did it start? No one can say for sure. But the old men with long beards will tell you an ancient legend they heard from their ancestors' ancestors. It is said that during the end of the Yuan Dynasty, the people were discontent with the rule of the Mongols and rose up in rebellion. The people of Zhijiang also prepared to rebel on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month. Some people put a small piece of paper in the mooncakes, on which was written: "Kill the Tartars on the fifteenth day of the eighth month." At that time, people referred to the Mongol soldiers as Tartars. Killing the Tartars meant killing the Mongol soldiers. People bought mooncakes, broke them open on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month, saw the paper, and rebelled, killing the local Mongol soldiers and joining the anti-Yuan Dynasty forces. After the Yuan Dynasty fell, there were no more "Tartars" to kill. To commemorate "killing the Tartars on the fifteenth day of the eighth month," the people of Zhijiang have been "killing ducks on the fifteenth day of the eighth month" every year. Because "duck" sounds similar to "Tartar." The people of Zhijiang have passed down this tradition from generation to generation.

Zhijiang duck has been on the table of the people of Zhijiang for hundreds of years, but the outside world was long unaware of this highly distinctive local custom and delicious cuisine. Until about ten years ago, it is said that two young men and women from different villages in Zhijiang met while working outside and fell in love. They returned home together with great joy to tell their families the good news and get married. However, their hometown parents and relatives vehemently opposed their marriage. The reason was that they both had the surname Yang. In the countryside of Zhijiang, many people still believe that those with the same surname are relatives and cannot marry each other. But they were from different villages and had no blood relationship. The government also approved their marriage application. But their stubborn relatives refused to yield. So the young couple had no choice but to leave home. They drifted outside to work. Because working was unstable, they thought of opening a restaurant. Whether it was due to the difficulty of running a restaurant or out of habit, they made Zhijiang duck when Mid-Autumn Festival arrived. Their Zhijiang duck quickly gained fame in Changsha. Customers who came to taste it came in a continuous stream. Their business grew bigger and bigger. They eventually opened chain stores. This spring, when I visited a Hunanese friend in Boston, I even had packaged Zhijiang duck she brought from China. This indicates that their Zhijiang duck has entered large-scale production. Zhijiang duck, hidden for hundreds of years "in the depths of the boudoir," has finally stepped out of Zhijiang and is increasingly loved by more and more people.

 

True Zhijiang Duck is gone 

However, packaged Zhijiang duck is far from being true Zhijiang duck, neither in taste nor in significance. Although the people of Zhijiang love Zhijiang duck very much, they only eat Zhijiang duck on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month. No restaurant sells Zhijiang duck. For the people of Zhijiang, only Zhijiang duck made with ducklings raised that year, local Ma Zi duck, young ginger, field sauce, and green onions harvested that year is true Zhijiang duck. Zhijiang duck is a special dish for Mid-Autumn Festival, just like turkey for Thanksgiving, and it is also a symbol of reunion. Zhijiang was originally the land of the Dong ethnic group, with Han, Miao, and other ethnic groups living there. But the various ethnic groups lived in harmony, intermarried, used Chinese characters, and spoke Chinese. Most of the descendants of the Dong ethnic group do not know that they are Dong ethnic people. All the people of Zhijiang, whether Han, Dong, or other ethnic groups, must eat Zhijiang duck on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month. Zhijiang duck, like a cultural melting pot, has blended the customs and cultures of various ethnic groups for hundreds of years. This makes the people of Zhijiang appear generous, tolerant, and peaceful. To ease my homesickness, I once bought frozen duck, old ginger, and sweet bean sauce and tried to make Zhijiang duck, but the taste was far from that of Zhijiang duck from my hometown. It lacked the atmosphere of duck fragrance filling the streets and alleys. Recently, when I called my former neighbor Tang Jie, she asked if I had gotten used to life in America. I said the hardest thing was not being able to eat Zhijiang duck. She said, "Come back, and I will definitely make lots of Zhijiang duck for you, guaranteed to satisfy you." Only in Zhijiang, during Mid-Autumn Festival, among relatives and friends, eating Zhijiang duck cooked by family members can truly dispel the endless homesickness in my heart.

 

Written on August 2004

 

Postscript

Xiping Jing, my classmate and roommate in Peking University. He became professor at Peking University. He still remembers that my hometown is Zhijiang. He told me in a phone call, a few years ago, two restaurants selling Zhijiang duck opened in front of Peking University. He thought if Zhijiang Duck is from Lewei's hometown? He went to eat it sometimes and felt it delicious. He said that Zhijiang duck is now sold in many Hunan restaurants in Beijing and has become a signature dish. But he didn’t know the story of Zhijiang Duck. I told him the story on phone, he found it very interesting. Thinking that more and more people like to eat Zhijiang duck, I have written this article. After eating Zhijiang duck and savoring the duck aroma in your mouth, it will be interesting to taste its culture and history.

 

Master Gan’s secret of rice cooking

Mr. Gan may didn’t have good education, probably only a few years of elementary school, but he has experienced a lot and is very good at conversation. However, what impresses people most about him is his cooking skills, particularly in cooking rice. He is considered to be unmatched and unbeatable in this regard.

Most people in the world can cook rice, and almost everyone who eats rice can cook it. In the eyes of ordinary people, cooking rice is the least technical job in the kitchen, and cooking schools may not even teach how to cook rice. With the popularity of electric rice cookers, cooking rice has become no technical. However, in the past, when there were no electric rice cookers, especially when cooking with a wood stove, some skill and experience were required. But this was not the area where Mr. Gan displayed his skills. Mr. Gan cooked large pots of rice, enough to feed over a hundred or even several hundred people, using a wood stove, and sometimes even digging a hole in the wilderness to cook with a military pot. This is an experience that most people have never had.

A military pot is a pot used by troops to cook in the wilderness. It is round and tapered, with a flat bottom and a slightly smaller diameter, and an open top with a slightly larger diameter, about three to four feet high. Dig a hole about one meter deep in the wild, and dig a hole on the edge of the pit. Place the pot on top, burn local firewood underneath, and cook outside. One company has one cooking class, responsible for the food of over a hundred people. The rice used for cooking is fifty or sixty catties, thirty times that of a typical household. Inexperienced people either cook it into mush or leave it half-cooked.

 

Similar to the above but it was black iron pot

Before the Cultural Revolution, there was a cooking skills competition for cooks in the Qianyang District (formerly Huai Hua District). It is said that Mr. Gan won first place in the military pot rice cooking competition.

Mr. Gan's large pot of rice is fast and good, not too soft or too hard, each grain is fully cooked, and the texture is just right, not sticking to the spoon or bowl (which is important for serving rice). It is said that he had a record of success for over two decades of cooking, at least in Zhijiang, which was unprecedented.

There were about three to four hundred Zhijiang Normal School students, plus faculty and family members, making a total of about four to five hundred people eating. Assuming each person eats 200 grams of rice, it would require more than 80 kg – 100 kg (176 - 220 lbs) of rice. Most canteens would put the rice in tens of bowls, use steaming to cook for such a large number of people, but Mr. Gan insisted on cooking rice with pot.

At the Zhijiang Normal School cafeteria on Wood Oil Hill, there are two large firewood stoves built with a round, tapered wooden barrel on top, with a diameter of about four feet, two feet high above the stove counter, and one foot below the stove counter, and larger at the bottom than at the top. When there are many people, Master Gan uses both stoves to cook rice at the same time, but when there are fewer people, he uses only one stove.

 

Similar to this traditional stove, but at least more than double the size

To cook rice, Master Gan first puts enough water in the pot and starts the fire. When the water boils, he pours baskets of rice into the pot, then stands on the stove and uses a long shovel to stir the rice in the pot. It takes a lot of strength to stir the hundred or so pounds of rice, but Master Gan has big biceps, a round waist, and strong tendons all over his body. In the steamy water vapor, he concentrates on his work, skillfully flipping the rice in the pot non-stop. Even in the coldest winter without heating system in kitchen, Master Gan cooks rice in just a single layer of clothes and still sweats profusely.

After stirring for about thirty minutes, he checks the color of the rice and determines that it's almost done, then throws a large sieve into the pot to strain out the excess rice soup and pours it into a large wooden barrel. When he's finished scooping out most of the excess water, he stirs the semi-cooked wet rice evenly, covers the pot, and removes the fire below, leaving only the glowing charcoal. Even after the rice is steamed, the steam continues to escape from the gap between the lid and the pot.

After twenty minutes, the kitchen is filled with the aroma of rice. Master Gan lifts the lid, and a white, steamy aroma wafts into the air, with the fragrant scent of fully cooked rice. He hangs a large scale on a rope from the ceiling and attaches a large bamboo sieve to the hook. He uses a large ladle to scoop out the hot, plump, non-sticky rice into the sieve, pouring ten pounds of rice into a small wooden bucket. He knows from experience that 200 grams of uncooked rice should yield 500 grams of cooked rice, and one table of ten people requires 5 kg of rice. He weighs it accurately, usually just right, with the occasional last bucket being a little more or less. If he has too much rice, he puts it in a small bowl and adds a little to each bucket. If he has too little, he takes out a little from each bucket and adds it to the last bucket.

After the rice is distributed, he scoops out the crispy, fragrant, yellow-brown crust from the bottom of the pot, divides it evenly, and covers each bucket of rice with it. Every time, Master Gan calculates the time and prepares the rice a few minutes before mealtime so that the students can still enjoy the crispy crust on top of their rice.

Everything is clean, neat, and done in one go.

 

The Aerial Survey Team

The fever of the Cultural Revolution, which had erupted in 1967, showed no sign of abating.

In Zhijiang County, officials at every level had been branded “capitalist roaders” and brought down. But once the rebel factions had run out of officials to overthrow, they were left with a new problem: whom, exactly, could they rebel against?

The answer, inevitably, was each other.

Soon, the rebel groups turned on one another, each claiming to be the true Red Guards, the true followers of Chairman Mao. Each side was convinced that it represented the revolution and that the other side was made up of impostors.

At first, their confrontations were mostly symbolic—big-character posters pasted everywhere, competing slogans shouted from the streets. But in some places, the conflicts escalated into armed battles.

The situation was especially dangerous in towns with military factories.

In Chenxi County, more than a hundred kilometers from Zhijiang, there was an arms factory. One faction of the rebels broke into the factory, took out weapons, and distributed them to its own supporters. Before long, the two sides were fighting with real guns.

Zhijiang itself never descended into armed combat. But the rebels there were hardly idle. They sent people to Chenxi to join the fighting.

On January 13, 1968, some of those rebels were returning to Zhijiang after taking part in the battles in Chenxi.

They were riding in an open-bed Liberation truck, singing revolutionary songs as they traveled. Near Zhijiang, they came to Qili Bridge—the place where the Japanese surrender had been formally accepted at the end of World War II.

There was a sharp, almost ninety-degree turn just before a small bridge.

The truck was going too fast.

The driver became distracted and failed to make the turn.

The truck smashed through the wooden railing, flipped over, and plunged into the little river below.

Some of the passengers were thrown into the mud at the bottom. Then the overturned truck came down on top of them.

The survivors struggled for a long time to rescue them, but there was nothing they could do. Eventually they went back into town, brought the leaders of the county Armed Forces Department to the scene, and forced them to search for the bodies in the nearly freezing water.

Six bodies were eventually recovered.

They were laid out in a row in front of the county auditorium.

This became known throughout Zhijiang as the “1-13 Incident,” named after the date on which it occurred.

At the time, I was living with my mother in her dormitory at the county government compound. The county auditorium was directly across the street.

Like everyone else, I went to see the dead.

The six bodies lay side by side, their faces uncovered. They were all so young—around twenty years old.

From loudspeakers nearby came the songs and slogans of the Cultural Revolution. One quotation from Chairman Mao was repeated again and again:

“If we are going to struggle, there will be sacrifices. Death is something that happens frequently…”

A few days later, the rebels held a grand funeral for the young men, now honored as “martyrs.”

They drove through town in a long procession, firing guns into the air and singing the same revolutionary slogan:

“If we are going to struggle, there will be sacrifices.”

And yet, on the eastern edge of town, only a little over a kilometer from the memorial marking the Japanese surrender, another world seemed to exist.

There, at Muyoupo, stood the former American air base built during World War II—the site that would later become Zhijiang Normal School.

It was remarkably peaceful.

The Red Guard students had already left. A handful of teachers who had been denounced during the Cultural Revolution remained behind, watched over by a few people. Every day they were made to perform manual labor.

Before long, even those teachers were dispersed, and the students were gone as well.

By spring, the school had become almost deserted.

And with fewer people came an even deeper quiet.

That was when an aerial survey team arrived.

There were more than twenty people in the group, and they moved into the school.

At that time, the Zhijiang airport was unusually important.

Across virtually all of western Hunan—including western Hunan's Tujia and Miao Autonomous Prefecture and Qianyang Prefecture, which is now Huaihua City, as well as parts of the neighboring Changde and Shaoyang regions—there were almost no other airports. Large areas of eastern Guizhou had no airports either.

Although the Zhijiang airport had officially been abandoned, its location still made it strategically valuable.

The aerial survey team came back every year or two, sometimes every year, even during the Cultural Revolution.

Most of the time they used airplanes for surveying and exploration. Sometimes they conducted artificial rainmaking. Occasionally they sprayed pesticides.

When they were conducting aerial surveys, the airplane simply circled overhead.

But when they were making artificial rain or spraying pesticides, we could see a long trail of mist streaming from the rear of the plane.

At a time when our school had essentially stopped teaching us anything except quotations from Chairman Mao, the aerial survey team opened a window into another world.

A world of science.

A world of airplanes.

A world of people who seemed to know what they were doing.

It was the first time I had ever seen an airplane up close—a primitive old biplane with propellers.

 

By today's standards, the aircraft must have been hopelessly outdated. But to us children it was magical.

How could something so enormous possibly fly?

We thought the people on the aerial survey team were extraordinary.

They could fly airplanes!

There was only one airplane, and most of the people on the team were ground crew, geologists, or other scientists. We never actually knew which one was the pilot.

But to us, they all seemed remarkably sophisticated.

They were confident and intelligent. They carried themselves with an air of knowledge and competence. And they spoke beautiful, standard Mandarin.

We were children, and we were impressed.

The school had only about twenty teachers left by then. With so few people eating there, the school gave its better-equipped dining hall to the aerial survey team.

The teachers moved into a small kitchen in another building.

Naturally, I became curious about what the people on the team ate.

The cook was a man everyone called Master Liu. He had been transferred from the county government's kitchen and was responsible for baian—the flour-based foods such as noodles and steamed buns.

I knew him from the county government compound. I often ate the noodles and buns he made there.

He was an adult and I was only a child, and we never actually talked. But he knew who I was. He knew I belonged to one of the families connected with the county government.

Sometimes I would creep quietly to the doorway and peek inside.

If he noticed me, he never chased me away.

But neither did he invite me in.

What fascinated me most was the flour.

The flour in the aerial survey team's kitchen was incredibly white.

I had never seen flour so white in my life.

The steamed buns were large, perfectly rounded, and wonderfully fragrant.

In those days, food was rationed and had to be purchased with coupons. We children were almost always hungry—never quite starving, but never quite full either.

So that smell was almost impossible to resist.

I would find myself lingering around the kitchen, again and again, drawn there by the aroma.

And there was another smell.

Something unfamiliar.

A rich, distinctive fragrance that seemed to come from the food the survey team was eating.

I remember thinking:

They must be eating something very nutritious.

Decades later, I bought some coconut oil for cooking.

The moment I opened it, that smell came back to me.

Suddenly I was a child again, standing outside the aerial survey team's kitchen.

So that's what it was.

Coconut oil.

Back in those days, coconut oil wasn't something you could simply buy in a store. Today, of course, it is widely sold and promoted as a cooking oil.

Funny how memory works.

Sometimes it is not a face or a photograph that brings the past back.

Sometimes it is just a smell.

---

There was a young man on the team named Meng.

We called him Uncle Xiao Meng.

He was probably in his twenties, with a round face, a medium build, and a slightly plump figure. He spoke fluent Mandarin and had a cheerful, easygoing personality.

Most of all, he loved children.

Whenever he went swimming in the nearby river, he would pick us up and throw us into the water. Sometimes he would have water fights with us.

We adored him.

He was the youngest member of the aerial survey team, but his colleagues clearly liked him too. They always called him affectionately, simply, “Xiao Meng.”

He was from northern China and couldn't handle spicy food.

That was unfortunate, because in Zhijiang, a cook could hardly prepare a meal without chili peppers.

Poor Xiao Meng would eat something spicy and his whole face would turn bright red. The redness would stay for ages.

His colleagues would tease him:

“Xiao Meng, look at your nose! Even your nose has turned red from the chili!”

---

The team had several trucks and an old-fashioned Beijing Jeep.

To us, the Jeep looked brand-new.

It was just like the green military Jeeps we had seen in movies.

Whenever the team went into town, they traveled in the Jeep.

If we happened to be walking into town or coming home when their Jeep passed by, we would wave.

Most of the time, they stopped and gave us a ride.

And if Uncle Xiao Meng was driving, we knew for sure he would stop.

We would pile into the Jeep, delighted.

In those days, even the smell of gasoline seemed wonderful to us.

---

One day, several of us children found some cigarette butts lying on the grass.

We decided to imitate the adults.

We smoked them.

It was our first experience with cigarettes.

The smoke was hot and bitter and made our throats burn.

But we wanted to look grown-up, so we endured it.

Just then, Uncle Xiao Meng happened to walk by.

He saw us smoking.

He didn't say a word.

He simply walked over.

One by one, he grabbed us under the arms and began spinning us around, like a discus—or a hammer being thrown.

Around and around we went.

Dozens of times.

Then he tossed each of us onto the grass.

When he was finished, he wasn't even out of breath.

He simply walked away.

At the time, I thought:

He must be a pilot.

Otherwise, how could anyone spin around like that dozens of times without getting dizzy?

We certainly couldn't.

Every one of us was completely disoriented. The world was spinning. We couldn't stand up. We lay on the grass for a long time before we could even get our feet underneath us.

And then there was the cigarette smoke.

After being spun around so many times, the smoke we'd just inhaled suddenly seemed to come rushing back up.

We nearly vomited.

We felt absolutely miserable.

But that little episode stayed with me.

In fact, it may have been one of the most effective anti-smoking lessons I ever received.

I never became a smoker.

---

Life in town had become less violent than during the early years of the Cultural Revolution, but it was by no means normal.

From time to time there were still public struggle sessions.

Landlords, rich peasants, “counterrevolutionaries,” “bad elements,” and rightists were paraded through the streets for public humiliation.

Propaganda trucks drove around town with loudspeakers blaring slogans.

But at Muyoupo, everything seemed utterly calm.

We heard frogs calling from the rice fields.

Farmers shouted as they worked their land.

Birds sang from the bamboo groves.

Children laughed as they chased one another across the grass.

And overhead came the deep, throaty roar of the aerial survey team's airplane flying low across the sky.

It was a strange little island of peace in the middle of a turbulent time.

The aerial survey team was like a flock of migratory birds.

They came in spring.

They left in autumn.

The next spring, they returned.

And in autumn, they disappeared again.

The pattern repeated itself.

Then, in the third year, my family moved back into town.

We never saw the members of the aerial survey team again.

But every summer, whenever I looked up and saw one of those old-fashioned biplanes flying across a blue sky filled with white clouds, I knew:

The aerial survey team was back.

And perhaps, just perhaps,

Uncle Xiao Meng was up there flying it.

Written September 15, 2021

Auntie Wang, Our Housekeeper

 Auntie Wang was the only housekeeper my family ever employed. We hired her after we moved from Anjiang (安江) to Zhijiang (芷江), Hunan in early of1962.

At that time, we lived in the middle two rooms of a long, single-story dormitory building at the Zhijiang Teachers' School. My maternal grandmother had come from our hometown in Changde (常德) several years earlier to help care for me. By then she was already in her seventies and in frail health. In October 1962, my mother gave birth to my younger brother. My grandmother could no longer manage the children by herself, so my parents hired Auntie Wang to help.

Auntie Wang was in her forties, small in stature, and lived in Xiacaiyuan, a farming area southwest of Zhijiang across the river, about three or four kilometers from town. She appeared to be of Miao ethnicity, either having come from neighboring Guizhou Province or from the Xiangxi Tujia and Miao Autonomous Prefecture in western Hunan. I never knew whether she had moved there with her parents as a child or had been born and raised in Zhijiang as a second-generation resident.

She looked gentle and rather delicate, but she possessed an exceptionally strong will. Beneath her quiet appearance was a stubborn determination that could surprise anyone.

One thing made Auntie Wang quite unusual—she refused to eat fish.

I never knew whether she had mentioned this when my parents hired her, or whether she had kept it to herself. If she did tell them, they certainly underestimated how serious the matter was.

Whenever our family wanted to eat fish, Auntie Wang would not cook it. That in itself was not a major problem, since my parents could prepare it themselves. The real difficulty came afterward. Before any fish could be cooked, she first had to finish preparing the dishes she herself would eat. Any pot that had cooked fish, or any bowl or plate that had held fish, had to be washed over and over again—sometimes more than a dozen times—before she would use it. Otherwise, she would absolutely refuse to eat any food prepared with those utensils.

As a result, serving fish became such a nuisance that, during the several years Auntie Wang worked for us, we simply stopped eating fish altogether. To this day, I have no idea why she disliked it so intensely. I have never met another person who was so completely averse to fish.

By then I was already five years old and needed very little care. My younger brother was mainly looked after by my grandmother, who also did much of the laundry. Strictly speaking, washing clothes was not her responsibility, but she simply could not bear to sit idle. Auntie Wang was therefore not especially busy. Fortunately, my family was easygoing and never quarreled over such matters, so we got along with her quite well.

In October 1965, my father's school, Zhijiang Teachers' School, exchanged campuses with Zhijiang No. 2 Middle School, and we moved to Muyoupo, near Qili Bridge. Auntie Wang moved with us. My mother worked for the county government in town and had to live in the government compound, making it difficult for her to come home regularly. Our youngest brother was only about six months old and had to be weaned earlier than planned.

The five members of our family, together with Auntie Wang, crowded into the two end rooms of a one-story dormitory that had originally housed members of the Flying Tigers during World War II. Behind the rooms, we added a pianshua—a local Zhijiang term for a lean-to built under the extended eaves of a house—which served as our kitchen.

By then, the Cultural Revolution had just begun, and the first big-character posters were appearing everywhere.

My grandmother had always been timid, and with her advanced age she became increasingly anxious. She kept insisting that she wanted to return to her hometown in Changde. As she often said, "These old bones of mine should be buried in the soil of my native place, not left in a foreign land."

My parents therefore asked one of our cousins from the countryside near Changde—nicknamed "Blind Cousin" (though he was not actually blind, and none of us knew how he had acquired the nickname)—to make a special trip to escort my grandmother home.

No sooner had she left than the Red Guards announced that employing housekeepers was an act of exploitation and was therefore forbidden. All domestic servants were ordered to be dismissed within a specified period.

Auntie Wang could no longer stay with us. But once she left, only my father would be left to care for my two younger brothers and me. My youngest brother was barely a year old, and it was obvious that my father could not possibly look after all three of us by himself. With no other choice, my parents urgently asked my paternal grandmother, who lived in the countryside of Taoyuan County, to come and take my two younger brothers.

My grandmother was more than ten years younger than my maternal grandmother and was about sixty years old at the time. She was still relatively young and in excellent health, which was exactly why my parents asked her to take care of my brothers.

When she arrived, she did not leave immediately. Instead, she stayed with us for a while. My parents wanted the two boys to spend some time with her and develop an emotional bond before she took them away. They were especially concerned about my youngest brother, who was only a little over a year old. If he was frightened of strangers or refused to go with her, taking him home would become very difficult.

For a short period, the two small rooms housed seven people: my parents, the three brothers, my grandmother, and Auntie Wang.

Photograph: Front row, from left: Ding Rui (our neighbor's son and the younger brother of Ding Yan), my youngest brother, and my younger brother. Middle row, from left: Auntie Wang, my grandmother, and me. Back row: my elder brother (my father was my stepfather, and my elder brother was his son from his first marriage).

My grandmother was fearless and never shrank from confrontation. If another child hit me, my maternal grandmother's first instinct had always been to pull me away or carry me off, keeping me out of trouble. My paternal grandmother was completely different. If someone hit me, she would say, "Lewei, hit him back!" I was the kind of child who never fought back, so when I refused, she would become impatient, grab my hand, and use it to strike the other child herself.

She was remarkably healthy and had an enormous appetite, eating more than anyone else in the family. At that time, I was responsible for buying our meals from the school cafeteria. When my grandmother arrived, I noticed that the amount of food we had to buy nearly doubled. Unable to hide my surprise, I blurted out, "Grandma, how can you eat so much?"

Many years later, my mother would still laugh whenever she recalled the incident, teasing me about how thoughtless and childish I had been.

My grandmother had been born a few years before the 1911 Revolution. When the revolution broke out, she had just reached the age when girls were expected to have their feet bound.

Although the new Republic abolished foot-binding after the fall of the Qing Dynasty, our ancestral village of Ligonggang in Taoyuan County lay deep in the mountains. Transportation was poor, communication was slow, and the villagers knew nothing about the revolution. They did not even realize that the emperor had been overthrown. Men continued to wear the traditional queues, and young girls still had their feet bound, just as before.

Only several years later did news gradually reach the village that people elsewhere had long since cut off their queues and abandoned the practice of foot-binding. By then, my grandmother had already endured several years of bound feet before the bindings were finally removed.

As a result, her feet were neither the tiny "golden lilies" of women whose feet had been fully bound, nor the natural feet of women who had never undergone the practice. They were an intermediate size—larger than fully bound feet but noticeably smaller than normal feet. There were not many women like her, but they all shared the same experience: they had begun foot-binding before the 1911 Revolution, only to have the practice abandoned a few years later. Consequently, it was always difficult for her to find shoes that fit properly.

Although my grandmother was elderly and had never received any formal education, she possessed an extraordinarily inquisitive mind. Whenever she saw me rolling an iron hoop with a hooked stick, she would ask, "Lewei, why doesn't that iron hoop fall over when it's rolling?"

I was only a second-grade boy. At school, our lessons consisted mainly of memorizing Chairman Mao's quotations. How could I possibly answer questions like my grandmother's—questions worthy of One Hundred Thousand Whys?

In front of our home were two basketball courts, where outdoor movies were often shown in the evenings. After watching one of those films, my grandmother asked me, "Lewei, how do the people in the movie move around on that screen?"

That question was even more difficult. Even today, it would require at least a high school student's knowledge to explain it properly. For a second-grader growing up during the Cultural Revolution, it was simply beyond me. Yet I have never forgotten those remarkably perceptive questions my grandmother asked. They revealed a mind that was endlessly curious about the world.

My grandmother was full of vitality. Although her feet had once been bound, she walked faster than many women with natural feet. She eventually lived to the age of ninety-nine. After staying with us for about two or three weeks, she and my younger brothers had become close enough that she was able to take them back with her to Taoyuan (桃源）.

Auntie Wang remained with us for only a few more days before leaving. During that time, I apparently did something that angered her, though I no longer remember what it was. She picked up a bamboo switch and came after me.

Terrified, I ran into the inner room and bolted the door behind me.

The two rooms we occupied had originally been a single dormitory room for members of the Flying Tigers during World War II. It had later been divided into two smaller rooms by a wooden partition. The partition was only about two meters high, leaving a gap of roughly sixty centimeters below the ceiling.

To my astonishment, Auntie Wang dragged over a chair, climbed onto it, hoisted herself over the partition, dropped into my room, and gave me a sound beating.

She had disciplined me before, but I remember almost none of those occasions. This one, however, has remained vivid in my memory ever since. Even so, I never told my parents about it.

Auntie Wang worked for our family for about four years. After leaving us, she returned to her home in Xiacaiyuan. My father and I continued living at Muyoupo, while my mother remained at the county government offices in town.

Thus, our household consisted of just two males—a grown man and a young boy. We usually ate at the school cafeteria, but it was closed on Sundays, so we had to cook for ourselves once a week.

My father had been the only son in his family. My grandmother doted on him and had never expected him to do household chores. Moreover, he had left home at a young age to attend school, so he never learned how to cook.

His philosophy of cooking was wonderfully simple:

"As long as it's meat, it'll taste good no matter how you cook it."

In those days, meat was rationed. Each person was entitled to only one jin (about half a kilogram) per month, and sometimes the only meat available was salted pork.

My father really did cook according to his theory. He would buy the meat, cut it into several large chunks, drop them into a pot of water, boil them until they were done, sprinkle on a little salt, and serve them. Since meat was such a rare luxury, we thought it tasted delicious no matter how simply it was prepared.

Eventually, I began teaching myself to cook. My friendly rival was Ding Yan, the little girl next door who was one year younger than I was. We competed to see whose dishes tasted better.

At first, I was hopeless. On one occasion, while cutting vegetables, I sliced deeply into my finger, leaving a flap of flesh hanging open. The scar is still visible today.

Once I stir-fried eggplant and proudly invited Ding Yan to taste it.

"There's plenty of oil," I said with satisfaction.

She took one bite and replied matter-of-factly, "It tastes like raw cooking oil. You have to heat the oil until it begins to smoke before adding the vegetables. Otherwise, you'll always get that raw oil taste."

I felt rather embarrassed, but I learned an important lesson that day: properly heated oil makes all the difference.

Little by little, I became a self-taught cook and eventually assumed the role of the family's chief chef. My cooking was far from outstanding, but it was certainly better than my father's. Since he neither knew how to cook nor was picky about food, he happily ate whatever I prepared.

Three years later, my father was assigned to organize the newly established Zhijiang Middle School, and we moved back into town.

At first we had only a single room to live in. Both of my parents were sent to the countryside as members of a government work team, so I had to board with my teacher, Mr. Feng Wei.

The following year, my mother took me back to Taoyuan to bring my younger brother home to Zhijiang, while my youngest brother remained with my grandmother.

After we returned to town, Auntie Wang occasionally came to visit us. She always said that if we ever needed her again, she would gladly come back to work for our family. But by then we children were older, and our living quarters were far too cramped, so we never hired another housekeeper.

Whenever Auntie Wang visited, she brought vegetables from her own garden. We also visited her home in Xiacaiyuan twice. The walk took about forty-five minutes.

Xiacaiyuan lay beside the Wu River. The land along the river was broad and level, consisting mainly of vegetable gardens, with some farmland as well. Auntie Wang's home was an old wooden house, somewhat weathered with age, surrounded on all sides by fields and vegetable plots.

Her husband was surnamed Li, though she always called him "Old Li." He was considerably older than she was. In his youth, he had been forcibly conscripted into the Nationalist Army (Kuomintang). Later, he was captured by the People's Liberation Army, joined its ranks, and soon afterward was sent to Korea as a member of the Chinese People's Volunteers.

He was seriously wounded during the Korean War and underwent an above-the-knee amputation of his right leg. As a disabled war veteran, he received a government pension, and a plaque honoring his military service hung beside the front door of their home.

Uncle Li needed crutches to walk and could no longer work in the fields. Instead, he stayed at home weaving bamboo baskets and other bamboo utensils to sell.

He was a tall, well-built, and handsome man, with a gentle, scholarly manner. He spoke softly, never hurried, and rarely became upset—the complete opposite of Auntie Wang's quick temper. She often complained about him, yet Uncle Li would simply smile and never argue back. It was obvious that he always yielded to her, and despite their contrasting personalities, they shared a warm and affectionate marriage.

They had two children. I remember only their elder child, a daughter who was about two or three years older than I was. She attended Longping Middle School on the west side of the river, though, like students throughout China during the Cultural Revolution, much of what she studied consisted of Chairman Mao's quotations.

She had inherited her father's height and stood nearly half a head taller than her mother. She was also much prettier than Auntie Wang. Like her father, she had a calm and gentle disposition.

Growing up in the countryside, she had a disabled father, a mother who spent long periods working away from home as a housekeeper, and a younger sibling. With no one to depend on, she learned to be remarkably independent, responsible, and capable.

She was probably fourteen or fifteen years old then. Her sun-darkened complexion and sturdy build reflected a life of hard work. She took care of the family's vegetable garden herself—watering it, pulling weeds, and tending the crops. She was also an excellent cook and, whenever she had time, helped her father weave bamboo products.

It was clear that Auntie Wang's family lived under difficult circumstances. Her work as a housekeeper supplemented the family's income, but she seemed to work for one family only for a period before returning home, sometimes remaining there for quite a long time.

I never knew the exact reasons. One possibility was that although the Red Guards no longer openly denounced hiring housekeepers as "exploitation," far fewer families were willing to employ domestic help after the Cultural Revolution began. Another may have been Auntie Wang's personality. Her quick temper, combined with her uncompromising refusal to eat fish, probably made it difficult for her to remain with any one family for very long.

Even after leaving our household, Auntie Wang visited us once or twice every year. She always brought fresh vegetables from her own garden, stayed for a chat, complained a little about Uncle Li, and updated my parents on how her children were doing.

As the Chinese saying goes, "One does not visit a temple without a reason." Auntie Wang usually came because she needed my parents' help. Her family was poor, and from time to time they faced financial hardships.

My parents often assisted relatives and friends who were in need, although they never spoke about it to me. Occasionally, I overheard them discussing such matters in private. Years later, some of those relatives told me how my parents' generosity had helped them through difficult times.

Auntie Wang herself never mentioned receiving assistance from my parents. Instead, she would simply say how well they had treated her and how much they cared about her.

When Auntie Wang was not feeling well to visit us, she would ask her daughter to deliver vegetables to our home instead.

By then I had long since become the family's chief cook, and from the age of thirteen one of my daily chores was buying vegetables in the market. On several occasions, I met Auntie Wang's eldest daughter selling vegetables at the entrance to the West Street Farmer’s Market. Every time, she insisted on giving me some of her vegetables free of charge.

After the restoration of China's national college entrance examination in 1977, Auntie Wang's daughter came to see me and asked if I would tutor her in preparation for the exam. I made a special trip to her home and tutored her couple times.

Unfortunately, her educational foundation was simply too weak. A few tutoring sessions could not possibly make a significant difference. She was also older than most candidates. After carefully weighing her prospects, she decided to give up the idea of taking the college entrance examination. Not long afterward, she married.

After I entered Peking University, I returned home only infrequently. I never saw Auntie Wang or her daughter again. I knew, however, that she continued to visit my parents. They later told me that when Uncle Li passed away, Auntie Wang was heartbroken. They comforted her during that difficult time and may even have attended Uncle Li's funeral.

Auntie Wang herself passed away some years later, although I do not know exactly when.

She was the only housekeeper our family ever employed. The fact that she married Uncle Li speaks to her compassion and kindness. At the same time, marrying him also proved to be a blessing in her own life. She was quick-tempered, to be sure, but she was fundamentally a good woman. Although she had beaten me more than once as a child, I never held it against her.

Written on October 29, 2021.

My Father’s Long Flashlight

During the Cultural Revolution, my father had two little treasures that he always carried with him. The first consisted of the Xinhua Dictionary and a Pocket Dictionary of Idioms. Not only did he flip through them frequently himself, but before I left to live as a sent-down youth (Zhiqing), he specifically stuffed these two small dictionaries into my luggage. The second was a long flashlight with a silver metal casing. It was about a foot and a half long and held six D-cell batteries. It had a very large round mirror at the front, and at night, it functioned like a small searchlight, capable of illuminating things over a dozen meters away.

At the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, we lived in Muyoupo, Qilibiao. Located to the east of the abandoned Zhijiang Airport, it was originally a base for the Flying Tigers and the U.S. Army Air Forces, but at that time, it had become the campus of the Zhijiang Normal School. As the principal, my father had already been overthrown and denounced. The Red Guards held several criticism-and-denunciation meetings against him, but because his family background was that of a middle peasant, he himself had joined the underground Communist Party in 1948, and later enrolled in the West Hunan Military and Political University as a classmate of Luo Shengjiao during the same period, there were absolutely no issues in his political history. Since he had only been in charge of the Normal School for two years, the students barely knew him and couldn't find any "crimes" to pin on him, so they simply pushed him to the side.

Aside from attending political study sessions every week, he basically had nothing to do. Since my mother was still working at the County Women's Federation at the time and living in the county government compound, we would occasionally go into town to see her. She only had one room and one bed back then, so when we visited, we would just have a meal and head back to Muyoupo. In the winter, if we walked back after dinner, it would already be dark.

The name Qilibiao meant it was seven li (about 3.5 kilometers) away from the county seat, and the airport alone accounted for three li. At the abandoned Zhijiang Airport, the Zhijiang Meteorological Station on the north side was still operating, having been converted from the old airport control tower.

Caption: The meteorological station back then (the original airport control tower; the Flying Tigers Memorial Hall was later built behind it).

Every evening at exactly seven o'clock, the meteorological station would release a weather balloon; even during the Cultural Revolution, this was never interrupted. There were about a dozen people living in the simple dormitories behind it. Later on, the parents of Zhao Yong—who went down to the countryside with us to Shuikuan as sent-down youths—worked at the meteorological station, and their family lived right there. However, we weren't well-acquainted at the time, so I never visited his home back then.

Aside from this small weather station, the airport and its surroundings were completely uninhabited. During the day, nearby farmers would drive their cattle and sheep to graze on the runway. With blue skies and white clouds above and livestock wandering below, it looked just like the Mongolian grasslands. At night, however, it was completely deserted, devoid of lights, and enveloped in absolute silence. On moonless nights, the surroundings were pitch black, with only a faint glow in the western sky, illuminated by the lights of Zhijiang town two or three li away.

On rainy or moonless nights, when we crossed the airport in the piercing darkness, we would see dark figures standing by the roadside ahead. Those were actually the massive stone rollers left behind from when the airport was constructed. About 1.5 meters in diameter and 1.5 meters wide, they were scattered randomly across the airport. Looking from a distance, it was very difficult to tell whether they were human silhouettes or stone rollers.

As we neared Muyoupo, there were several aircraft revetments—the places where planes used to be parked. To prevent enemy aircraft from spotting them, these revetments were built in low-lying areas, surrounded by slopes on three sides, some natural and some man-made. Trees were planted on the slopes, so even when there was a moon, walking near the revetments felt eerie and chilling. People were frequently executed by firing squad in those aircraft revetments, which made them even more hair-raising. Every time we walked into that area, my heart would leap into my throat; I was afraid of both ghosts and people, and I could only grip my father’s hand tightly.

With one hand holding mine and the other carrying that long flashlight, my father would never turn it on, no matter how dark it was. We just walked in the pitch black. He told me: "When walking at night, you must never turn on your flashlight. Because once you turn it on, you are in the light while the bad guys are in the dark. They can see you from far away, but you can’t see them, which is very dangerous. By keeping it off, we stay in the dark, and the bad guys can’t see us clearly. If a bad guy approaches, we can point it straight at his eyes and suddenly turn it on. He will be blinded, and we will gain the upper hand. A long flashlight is brighter than a regular one, making it even more blinding to a bad guy. While he can't see, you can even use the flashlight to strike him."

However, during the three years we lived in Muyoupo, we crossed the airport many times at night but never ran into a single bad guy. As the proverb goes, "If you walk in the night long enough, you are bound to run into ghosts," but we never encountered any. My father’s tactics were never put to use in actual combat.

On August 20, 1967, after dinner, a lot of people from the school—mostly parents and children—agreed to go for a stroll together by the Wushui River about a li away, as it was cool by the water. About seventy or eighty meters from the Wushui River ran the Xiang-Qian Highway. It paralleled the river, stretching all the way from Changsha to Guiyang, serving as a major transportation artery connecting Hunan and Guizhou at the time. Even though production in all walks of life was heavily disrupted by the Cultural Revolution, there were still quite a few trucks and cars coming and going.

Our group of over a dozen adults and children walked to the edge of the highway. Just as we were preparing to cross, we spotted three Jiefang trucks speeding toward us from our left (the east). Machine guns were mounted on top of the trucks, and they were packed with people who looked like fully armed Red Guards. They sped past right in front of us, heading toward the center of Zhijiang.

Master Gan, a cafeteria worker who had previously served as a soldier (in the Nationalist forces), muttered, "This looks bad, trouble is brewing." Shortly after crossing the road, he carried his son (who was just over a year old) and hurried home. The other parents grew uneasy as well, and as a result, we all returned home within ten minutes.

Around nine o’clock, some people came over from Zhijiang town, looking incredibly tense. They said a rebel organization from Anjiang—though some said they were Red Guards from Chenxi—had driven into Zhijiang (the very people on the three Jiefang trucks we had seen). They were blocked by some local citizens at the Zhijiang Bus Station. They fired warning shots into the sky first, and then someone shot into the crowd, killing one person (I don't remember if others were wounded). After breaking through the blockade and entering the town, they raided the County Party Committee, the county government, and the County Military Affairs Department, detaining all the county leaders.

Many residents in the town were terrified and fled into the countryside to seek refuge, including my mother, who was living in the county government compound at the time. However, most of them went to the Aitouping Commune, likely feeling that Qilibiao was still too close to the town.

From time to time, people would arrive with new updates, some of which were terrifying. People in Muyoupo began to flee as well. Master Gan, a big, burly man in the prime of his life, abandoned his wife and children and ran off. My father did not run, nor did he show any signs of panic.

As the night grew deep, I didn't dare to sleep. My father put on black clothes, holding a woodcutter's machete in one hand and the long flashlight in the other, still keeping it turned off. The lights in the room were off, and it was sweltering hot. He told me to get into bed and sleep. Looking through the mosquito net, he told me: "I'll be right outside nearby, don't be afraid. If the rebels come and ask you where your mom and dad went, just say you don't know."

He walked around outside the house, occasionally coming inside to check on me. I didn't feel particularly terrified at the time, just somewhat numb. I didn't dare to sleep, but I held out until the latter half of the night. Exhausted, I finally fell asleep.

When I got up early the next morning, because Master Gan had fled, there was no one to cook in the cafeteria. Master Wang, who lived just outside the South Gate of Zhijiang town and was responsible for boiling water, came to work as usual. His home was only three hundred meters from the South Gate where the person had been shot killed. He only knew that something had happened, but not the details; he was neither concerned nor afraid, and had rushed over in the morning just to boil water. Hearing that Master Gan had fled, he grumbled about Master Gan being too cowardly while stepping into the kitchen to prepare meals for everyone.

Everyone remained anxious because we didn't know if the rebels would come to Muyoupo. It was simply too close—only a ten-minute drive away. We spent three days living in suspense like this. People kept leaving, and eventually, only a dozen or so scattered individuals remained at the school. My father continued to patrol around the house every night carrying his long flashlight and machete, though he would return inside to sleep during the latter half of the night.

Early on the fourth morning, my father said to me, "Lewei, go into town and see if that bunch of rebels has left. You're just a kid; they won't do anything to you."

He gave me one yuan and a coupon for one jin (half a kilogram) of meat, adding, "Buy a jin of meat on your way back."

Receiving my orders, I set off immediately. After crossing the airfield, I entered the town through the East Gate and started asking people, "Where are the rebels?" They told me, "The rebels are right at the county government and the gates of the County Party Committee." The county government was exactly where my mother worked, so I knew the paths well. I walked from the East Gate along East Street to the Bell and Drum Tower, turned right onto North Street, and walked to the very end of North Street. As I approached the large square in front of the county government, the County Party Committee, and the grand auditorium, I could see a massive circle of people from afar. Moving closer, I saw that inside the circle were young people, both men and women, wearing military uniforms and carrying rifles on their backs. Some were talking, while others walked around. The three Jiefang trucks were parked by the roadside. Some bolder onlookers among the crowd occasionally struck up a conversation with the rebels. A person next to me asked a female rebel with a long rifle on her back, "Are you guys leaving?" The female rebel, who looked somewhat like a student and was quite pretty, smiled and did not deny it. Half an hour later, they all boarded the trucks. With machine guns mounted on the roofs of every vehicle as before, the three trucks packed with people drove off toward the South Gate (the South Gate was the only gateway in and out of the town back then).

Someone in the watching crowd murmured, "They're finally gone," and then everyone slowly dispersed.

Feeling hungry, I went to a nearby restaurant and bought a bowl of shredded pork noodles. I remember it cost twenty-one cents. I hadn't eaten shredded pork noodles in a long time, and they tasted delicious—mostly because it had been so long since I had tasted any meat. Afterward, I went to the state-planned meat supply station at the West Street market and bought a jin of meat for seventy-four cents. Carrying the meat, my mood was completely relaxed. Feeling as though I had accomplished a monumental task, I strolled leisurely back to Muyoupo. I told my father, "The rebels have left. I saw them leave with my own eyes."

My father immediately shared the news with everyone in Muyoupo: "The rebels are gone, Lewei saw it with his own eyes." Everyone's heart finally settled. The next day, Master Gan returned, the other people who had left came back, and my mother arrived too. They had endured an incredibly difficult time outside; many people had been crammed into a single room, unable to bathe for days, often missing meals, and even being treated as illegal vagrants by the local authorities. It felt like we had all survived a disaster, though the lingering fear remained in our hearts.

Later on, we moved back into the town. Because the town had streetlights and the roadsides were lined with residences, the long flashlight was no longer of much use. My father only used it occasionally; most of the time, it sat quietly on the bookshelf.

Many years later, my father brought up this incident multiple times. Between his words, he expressed great admiration for my performance back then.

Postscript

During the summer vacation around 1980 when I returned home, I went to Huaihua for a trip. There, I saw a public criminal judgment notice. One of the criminals sentenced to death had committed the following crime: In August 1967, he innocently shot and killed a protesting citizen in Zhijiang. It was his single shot that took the victim's life and plunged so many people in Zhijiang into panic that year. But the net of heaven has large meshes, yet it lets nothing through; thirteen years later, he ultimately failed to escape the punishment of the law.

Teacher Liu and his troublemaker student

Teacher Liu Qun was my political teacher in high school. At that time, he was in his thirties, about 1.7 meters tall, with a sturdy body and dark skin. His hair was always loosely scattered, with a few disobedient strands falling down at inappropriate times, covering his forehead or even his eyes, forcing him to flick them away with his hand. He always wore a pair of slippers on his feet, and there was often a cigarette between his fingers. If it weren't for a pair of deep-rimmed glasses, it would be hard for people to associate him with an intellectual.

Teacher Liu loved to chat with people. Whether you were a teacher, a student, or a parent, he could chat with you for half a day. Generally, political teachers had good eloquence and liked to make grand speeches. He never made grand speeches; instead, he chatted casually with you.

Teacher Liu Qun served as the homeroom teacher for a class one year below us, and the students in the class all liked him. His story with student Peng Fengyun is particularly memorable.

Peng Fengyun's family lived outside Southern Gate on Pingan Road, which is actually the Guizhou - Hunan Highway. Back then, it was a gravel road, and dust would fly up whenever a car passed by. Peng Fengyun had two younger sisters, and his father was an honorably discharged soldier who had participated in the Korean War and injured his legs, leaving him confined to a wheelchair as a severely disabled person. The government provided a monthly pension of 41 yuan. His mother worked in a sewing factory, earning about 20 yuan a month. In those days, a family of five with a monthly income of 60 yuan was considered well-off.

However, the residents outside Southern Gate were mainly workers, farm laborers, vegetable farmers, or craftsmen. Their incomes were generally low, and their educational levels were low too. Coupled with the poor material conditions at the time, urban residents were only allocated one catty of planned meat, 200 grams of cooking oil, and twelve kilograms of rice per month. For older children, this was simply not enough to eat. Peng Fengyun was taller than the average child, but he was thin and skinny, with slender arms and legs. Children in the Southern Gate area played much more wildly than those in the city. Fights and disturbances often occurred.

Peng Fengyun also mingled among them, nicknamed "Flower Head." The meaning of this nickname was known only to people in their circle, and others didn't understand it. But this nickname also indicated that he had considerable influence among the children in the Southern Gate area.

In 1972, he entered Zhijiang Middle School, one grade below me. At that time, Deng Xiaoping resumed his post, demanding schools to improve teaching quality. Teachers began to teach cultural knowledge seriously, exams were reinstated, and scores became the most important measure of students. Most students began to study hard and stopped idling around. But Peng Fengyun, who was used to not studying, had a poor foundation and didn't perform well academically. He wasn't the type of student teachers often praised, and he didn't do as well in school as he did in Southern Gate, believing that the teachers didn't like him.

In 1974, he entered high school, and his homeroom teacher was Teacher Liu Qun. Like other classmates, he quickly noticed that this Teacher Liu was different from other teachers in his treatment of students. He felt Teacher Liu's affinity and respect for himself and began to have a good impression of Teacher Liu, willingly listening to Teacher Liu's words.

In May, the school was going to hold a track and field meet, and Teacher Liu Qun asked students to sign up. Many classmates signed up, but as usual, Peng Fengyun did not. He felt weak physically and didn't think he had any athletic ability. He used to feel that teachers didn't care much about him, so he had always been passively avoiding class activities; if he could avoid participating, he would.

Teacher Liu found Peng Fengyun and said to him, "Peng Fengyun, why don't you sign up for the sports meet?" He felt embarrassed to refuse Teacher Liu's request, so he agreed to participate. Feeling very weak with thin arms, he thought he wouldn't be able to do well in throwing events but thought he could manage running, so he signed up for three running events: the 400 meters, 800 meters, and 1500 meters. All of this was done to save face for Teacher Liu; he thought that as long as he ran, he would have fulfilled his duty.

As a result, Peng Fengyun, who had never participated in track and field competitions before, won all championships in the 400 meters, 800 meters, and 1500 meters in the first-year boys' division, surpassing all the long-distance runners in the school's track team. This shocked the teachers and students who were watching the competition.

Teacher Liu was both shocked and pleased, never expecting Peng Fengyun to have such ability. The school's physical education teachers were also at a loss; how did this unassuming Peng Fengyun, who had never been trained, manage to surpass the daily trained athletes by such a large margin? Most surprised of all was Peng Fengyun himself: How come I didn't know I was this good?

He naturally became a member of the school's track team and immediately represented Zhijiang Middle School in the June Zhijiang County High School Athletics Meet. Before everyone could come to terms with it, he won the 400 and 800 meters championships at the county high school athletics meet. Since a person could only register for two events, otherwise, he would have won more first places.

Peng Fengyun became famous throughout the county in an instant.

He subsequently participated in the school, county, and regional athletics meets several times, winning all the 400 and 800 meters championships.

In 1978, Peng Fengyun represented Huaihua District for the first time in the Hunan Provincial Games. While participating in the games, he also took the college entrance examination, applying to sports colleges. His first choice was Wuhan Institute of Physical Education, and his second choice was the Sports Department of Hunan Normal University.

Just as the college entrance examination results were being announced, the Hunan Provincial Games were in full swing. Sitting in the stands of the track and field stadium was a special spectator: Ms. Wen from the Beijing Institute of Physical Education, in charge of recruitment in the Hunan region.

In 1978, the Beijing Institute of Physical Education decided to open a new sports department, mainly admitting young people with good athletic performance and a certain cultural foundation, to train professional coaches for the future sports teams who also had cultural knowledge. This was a new major that had never existed before.

She arrived relatively late and was in a hurry, but she happened to catch the Hunan Provincial Games. She went directly to watch the competitions, scouting for talent on the field. She saw Peng Fengyun taking the lead and winning the 400 and 800 meters championships at the track and field stadium. Learning that he had taken the college entrance examination and applied to sports colleges, she immediately wrote out an admission notice and found the Provincial Admissions Office to get Peng Fengyun's file.

Thus, shortly after winning the provincial games championship, Peng Fengyun received an admission notice from the Beijing Institute of Physical Education, which he hadn't even applied to. It was said that Hunan Normal University's Sports Department also decided to admit him, but they were a bit slower, and the Beijing Institute of Physical Education had already taken the lead.

Peng Fengyun became the first candidate from Zhijiang County to be admitted to the Beijing Institute of Physical Education, bringing glory to Zhijiang. Besides thanking his parents, he was most grateful to Teacher Liu Qun, and Teacher Liu was also proud of him. Whenever Peng Fengyun talked about Teacher Liu, he would say, "Without Teacher Liu Qun, I wouldn't be where I am today."

After graduating from the Beijing Institute of Physical Education, Peng Fengyun worked successively in the Hunan Sports Commission for a few years, then transferred to the Education Bureau of Luohu District, Shenzhen. He is now the head of the Sports Market Section of the Shenzhen Municipal Bureau of Culture and Sports, with a happy family.

Teacher Liu's Midas touch changed Peng Fengyun's fate. 

Peng is just one of students who changed his fate because Teacher Liu, most students in his class more or less have had their destinies changed by Teacher Liu. Students love Teacher Liu, they treat him as their own father, brother, and best friend.

In 2016, after graduated 40 years from Zhijiang High School, Peng Fengyun's high school class held a class reunion and specifically invited Teacher Liu Qun and his wife, who had retired for many years, and moved to Xiangtan, a city near Changsha, 400 kilometers away, to attend the reunion in Zhijiang. Considered their age, a few students specifically drove from Zhijiang to Xiangtan to pick them up before reunion, arranged them staying in Zhijiang for couple days, then sent them back after reunion. No retired teacher from Zhijiang High School has ever had such treatment.

Written in 2017

American Spy Wu Yun

Wu Yun was born in the late Qing dynasty and became an orphan at a very young age. It is unclear whether his parents couldn't support him or abandoned him. Eventually, he was adopted by an orphanage run by an American church in Zhijiang.

Together with other adopted orphans, they attended a school affiliated with the church, which had both Chinese and American teachers. The school taught both Chinese and English. Despite being physically small and frail, Wu Yun was intelligent and excelled in his studies, especially in speaking fluent American English, making him stand out among his classmates.

In 1936, retired U.S. Air Force Major General Claire Lee Chennault was invited to serve as an advisor to the Chinese Nationalist Air Force. He went to the United States to raise funds and buy airplanes, recruiting a group of retired U.S. Air Force pilots to form the "American Volunteer Group" (AVG), also known as the "Flying Tigers." Due to the shark's head symbol painted on their planes, resembling a tiger with an open mouth, the Chinese people referred to them as the "Flying Tigers." Eventually, the name became popular, and people only knew them as the "Flying Tigers," not their formal name, the "American Volunteer Group."

飞虎队 -Flying Tigers - American Volunteer Group in Zhijiang during World War II

The Flying Tigers were mainly stationed in Kunming and Zhijiang. In addition to the Flying Tigers, there were also the Nationalist Air Force, Soviet Air Force, and a small number of air forces from other allied nations stationed in Zhijiang. With a gathering of foreigners, there was a high demand for translation services, especially English translation. Zhijiang, being a small county on the outskirts, lacked English speakers. Consequently, Wu Yun naturally became the interpreter for both the Chinese Nationalist Air Force and the Flying Tigers.

After the Pearl Harbor incident, the United States declared war on Japan and officially dispatched the U.S. Air Force to support China in its resistance against Japanese aggression. Wu Yun once again became an interpreter for the U.S. Air Force. With more U.S. Air Force personnel stationed at Zhijiang Airport, Wu Yun's translation duties became more demanding and crucial. His outstanding translation skills received widespread praise from both Chinese and American military personnel. He was recognized with awards, and photos of him wearing American military uniform with medals showcased him as a true hero of the resistance.

 

Aug. 21, 1945, Japan surrendered to China in Zhijiang. The middle one is General Xiao Yishu – 萧毅肃, represented China government accepting the Japan surrender leading by General 今井武夫

After the victory in 1945, the U.S. Air Force gradually withdrew from China, and Wu Yun's translation work diminished. He was then recruited by Zhijiang Normal School to become an English teacher.

Zhijiang Surrender Memorial Arch - Originally built in 1947, it was destroyed during the Cultural Revolution and rebuilt in the 1980s.

Post-1949, as China and the United States strained their relations, Wu Yun's previous role as an interpreter for the U.S. military was no longer seen as a heroic achievement in the war against Japan. Instead, it became evidence branding him as an American Spy and a historical counter-revolutionary. Wu Yun's history became a lifelong political burden.

Despite the historical issues, the school still allowed him to teach. However, during that period, Russian language was in demand, and English classes, although available, were not a primary focus. Wu Yun, with poor eyesight, slow movements, and impaired hearing, became a target for mischief by some playful students. On occasions, students would intentionally speak unclearly and loudly ask him, "Are you a special agent?", which sounds like “Mr. Wu” in Chinese. Thinking they were greeting him in English as "Mr. Wu," he would happily respond with a "Yes," unknowingly becoming a subject of laughter for a group of students nearby. Fortunately, he remained unaware of their intentions and suffered no harm, exemplifying the concept of being "ignorant bliss."

Nevertheless, many students still respected him and earnestly learned English from him. Since he held no official position and was considered a bookish individual, he did not face significant political impacts, apart from occasional gatherings with others to remind them of being labeled as "bad elements" and the need for reform.

I encountered him during the Cultural Revolution. In his 60s, he had the appearance of a scholar—thin and small, with a lean face, always wearing a pair of high-framed, white-bordered reading glasses. His head had sparse, slightly graying hair. His clothes were oversized, hanging loosely on his frame. He walked slowly, spoke slowly, and had no family accompanying him. It was unclear whether he had a family but lived separately or was single, as he was often seen wandering alone on the campus.

In 1965, Zhijiang Normal School in the city exchanged campuses with Zhijiang No. 2 Middle School in Wood Oil Hill. Wood Oil Hill was located at Seven Miles Bridge, the place where Japan surrendered to the Nationalist government. It was situated east of Zhijiang Airport, close to the airport, and a couple of miles east was the Seven Miles Bridge where Japan surrendered.

This was the place where Mr. Wu Yun worked as an interpreter back in the day, and he was very familiar with it. During those years, he was a hero fighting against Japan, a translator highly respected by everyone. Returning to his old stomping grounds, he found himself labeled a historical counter-revolutionary and a societal scoundrel due to his history as a translator. However, nobody mentioned the Flying Tigers, the U.S. Air Force's stay at Wood Oil Hill, or Japan's surrender at Seven Miles Bridge. The only instance was during a large assembly where a woman accused the U.S. military of harassing women during those years.

In summary, the United States was considered evil. Anything related to the Flying Tigers and their anti-Japanese efforts was no longer acknowledged.

Wood Oil Hill was the place where Mr. Wu Yun and the Flying Tigers had lived together. Here, he translated for the Sino-American air force, feeling right at home. Returning to this familiar place today, he had become a criminal, unable to comprehend why. It was akin to his lack of understanding as to why his parents had abandoned him since childhood.

When the Cultural Revolution arrived, he was labeled as an "American Spy" and a "historical counter-revolutionary" by the Red Guards, subjected to criticism, and paraded through the streets. Because he wasn't considered a capitalist roadster and was deemed too apathetic, the Red Guards found it uninteresting to target him, so after a few rounds of struggle, he was left alone. For a while, nobody paid attention to him, and he became idle. However, after a few Months, the Red Guards ordered him to cut grass and feed fish at the school pond every day.

At the top of the hill in Wood Oil Hill, adjacent to Zhijiang Airport, stood three teaching buildings and a bungalow where teachers lived. Going downhill, there were two student dormitory buildings— one for boys, one for girls— and at the base of the hill was a large flat area with a few rice paddies. On the west side of the rice paddies were the school's water facilities, bathhouse, and kitchen. On the south side, there were two parallel basketball courts. To the east of the basketball courts was a grassy area, and further beyond was the Flying Tigers' club, essentially a small auditorium. To the south of the basketball courts were three long bungalows that used to serve as the dormitories for the Flying Tigers. Two of them were converted into teacher residences, and one was turned into classrooms for an affiliated primary school. 

The school teachers' dormitories were the same buildings used by the Flying Tigers, constructed in the American style—long rectangular buildings with board walls stacked diagonally and felt tiles for the roof, similar to houses seen throughout the United States. However, instead of the common two-story buildings in the U.S., these were single-story structures. The long bungalows were divided into separate rooms, serving as living quarters without kitchens. Later, the school added additional rooms at the back, extending the roof diagonally downward, and enclosed the space underneath with wooden boards to create kitchens. These houses became the teachers' dormitories.

The former Flying Tigers and U.S. Air Force dormitory in World War II became Zhijiang Normal School teachers' dormitory in 1965 – 1969

The fish pond is located on the slope of Wood Oil Hill, situated between the hill's summit and the student dormitories. Three sides of the pond are surrounded by towering trees, with only the southeast side facing the slope being treeless, allowing sunlight to reach the pond. The pond is almost as large as two basketball courts combined. From morning to noon, sunlight shines down, casting tree shadows on the water's surface. In the afternoon, the sunlight is blocked by the large trees, creating a cool and quiet atmosphere.

The pond is stocked with three main types of fish: grass carp, carp, and catfish. Grass carp inhabit the upper water layers and prefer eating grass. Carp resides in the middle layers, displaying diverse eating habits, consuming grass as well as plankton, small snails, and insects. Catfish, on the other hand, dwell at the bottom and have a penchant for consuming animal feces, decomposed plants, and other organic matter. This mixed cultivation effectively utilizes the underwater space, serving as a good method to increase overall yield.

Every morning, the grass carp surface to breathe. The pond's water surface is filled with mouths opening and closing, creating small ripples in the water. By midday, the sun heats the water surface, causing the fish to seek cooler spots at the bottom, resulting in a calm water surface.

Grass carp grow well when provided with ample grass for feeding. In the early and late hours, cut grass is thrown into the pond. Soon, fish can be seen nibbling at the grass, sometimes with many fish grazing simultaneously. Before long, the thrown grass is consumed entirely.

Well-fed grass carp produce more waste, enriching the water with microorganisms and small insects, providing an abundant food source for carp. Simultaneously, the waste produced also serves as food for catfish. Therefore, successfully cultivating grass carp is crucial for the mixed cultivation of fish, and the key to raising healthy grass carp lies in providing them with sufficient grass.

Mr. Wu Yun, in his 60s, was frail and ailing. Having never engaged in physical labor, he was clueless about how to cut grass. Every day, he would carry a large basket, a sickle in one hand, and cut grass along the school's field edges, pond edges, and on the hillside. Grass cutting requires skill and strength. Farmers typically hold the sickle in one hand and gather the grass with the other. For instance, they would gather a bunch of grass with their left hand while simultaneously cutting and pulling at the roots with their right hand, severing dozens or even hundreds of strands at once. Afterward, the gathered grass is lifted and placed into the basket. When the basket is full, the grass is tied into bundles to be thrown further. However, Mr. Wu Yun didn't know how to cut grass in this manner; he cut each strand one by one. Due to his age and inability to squat or bend for too long, he would sit on a small stool and cut slowly. Even after a whole morning, he couldn't fill his basket, and he didn't bundle the grass properly; he just scattered it by the pond. In a matter of minutes, the fish would consume it all.

Wood Oil Hill witnessed him every day, wearing a straw hat, carrying a basket with a small stool inside, and a sickle in his hand. He moved either slowly or even slower. Fortunately, the Red Guards from the Cultural Revolution had dispersed, leaving only a few who were no longer aggressive or fierce. They mostly ignored him, allowing him to cut grass at his leisure.

Seeing that the elderly man cut grass too slowly and too little, some would occasionally help him. My father often assisted him, cutting for ten minutes, achieving more than what Mr. Wu Yun could do in a day. Given my father's rural background, he would return home during school breaks to help with various tasks, making him more adept at agricultural activities. At that time, my father, being aligned with the "Rightists," wasn't considered a bad person but wasn't seen as a good person either. However, excessive assistance wasn't feasible due to the potential political consequences.

This routine continued from 1967 to 1969.

At the end of 1969, Zhijiang Normal School, Zhijiang No. 1 School, and Zhijiang No. 2 School were merged to form Zhijiang School. The original walls between the two schools were removed, creating a large campus. The school resumed enrollment, and by the spring of 1971, my father was appointed as the principal.

This marked the first time since the Cultural Revolution began in 1966 that school enrollment was reinstated. At the same time, universities began admitting students, although the students admitted that years were a small number of workers, peasants, and soldiers. Admission to university was mostly based on political evaluations, with or without very easy exams being a formality.

After more than four years of the Cultural Revolution, most teachers had been criticized, sent back to their hometowns, or faced severe health issues. Moreover, universities were closed, resulting in a lack of graduates. As the principal, my father confronted the severe shortage of teaching staff.

After the Battle of Zhenbao Island in the Ussuri River on the border between China and Soviet Union in 1969, Sino-Soviet relations plummeted to freezing levels. In 1972, with the visit of President Richard Nixon to China, Sino-American relations began to thaw. Consequently, the school started emphasizing English instruction. Before the Cultural Revolution, Russian was the main foreign language taught, with English being an elective. Now, there was a sudden shift to prioritize English, and there were not enough teachers proficient in the language.

Faced with the dilemma of "a clever housewife unable to cook without rice," my father began considering the idea of utilizing Mr. Wu Yun. However, at that time, Mr. Wu Yun still carried the labels of "American Spy" and "historical counter-revolutionary." Could such a person be allowed to teach? No one dared to entertain such thoughts.

Undeterred by these concerns, my father decided to bring Mr. Wu Yun out to conduct training classes for English teachers. In those years, even though my father was the principal, Mr. Wu Yun hesitated, considering the potential violation of the government policies. However, my father managed to organize the training classes, bringing in young teachers, including those from rural schools, to attend Mr. Wu Yun's classes. It seemed that there was some private communication with the county education bureau, as external teachers wouldn't have been allowed otherwise. The situation likely went as follows: the education bureau pretended not to know, and in case of any issues, my father, as the school principal, would take responsibility. The education bureau, facing a severe shortage of teaching staff countywide, turned a blind eye.

Despite the tacit approval from the education bureau, my father took precautions. The training classes were held in the relatively secluded library building on the second floor. The library, located amidst a group of old wooden buildings at the center of the school, housed the school library on the first floor, which was not accessible to students. The surrounding buildings were mostly teacher dormitories, with the student bathhouse, toilets, and the auditorium nearby. The classroom building was farther away. The upper floor of the library had long been vacant, no one was allowed to go upstairs without permit, making it an ideal location for the training. Moreover, the classes were scheduled during summer vacation when the school was devoid of students, and most teachers were on holiday, ensuring a quiet environment.

Thus, Mr. Wu Yun's English training classes took place quietly, seemingly without any reports or inspections. The summer session was followed by a winter session, and the training continued the next summer. This effort contributed to cultivating a group of English teachers in Zhijiang County, alleviating the severe shortage of English teaching staff. My father expressed his gratitude to Mr. Wu Yun for his invaluable contribution to society. In turn, Mr. Wu Yun was thankful for the opportunity my father provided, allowing him to contribute despite his advanced age, earning him respect.

As Sino-American relations improved further, Zhijiang began the reconstruction of the "Surrender Memorial Arch," destroyed by the Red Guards. Since the early 1980s, annual commemorative events were held at the site where Japan surrendered during World War II. Additionally, a Flying Tigers Memorial Museum was established. The remnants of the Flying Tigers' site on Wood Oil Hill, except for a stone-built small auditorium, were dismantled in the late 1970s. The small auditorium was moved to the exhibition hall of Flying Tiger Memorial outside the Zhijiang Airport as a historical artifact.

The Chinese government spent a significant amount to invite living members of the Flying Tigers back to Zhijiang multiple times since late of 1980s to 1990s. These veterans were elderly, but they were warmly welcomed by the people of Zhijiang, just as they were during the war. Revisiting Zhijiang, they were surrounded by applause, flowers, and praise. They savored the delicious cuisine of Zhijiang and the beautiful scenery of western Hunan. Upon departure, they received numerous gifts.

Former Flying Tiger Members were welcomed back to Zhejiang in 1990s

Mr. Wu Yun, a former member of the Flying Tigers who had fought side by side with other members, passed away in the early 1980s, didn't live long enough to experience these events.

Written on October 23, 2017