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.
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