Plentiful smoke on the thatched roofs. The tragic scene could not burn the hard hearts of the Communist soldiers. Gentle sunshine on the hillside. The bright, fragrant flowers now rise up in black columns of smoke, blowing into the gloomy sky.

That year, the thing that was most deeply engraved in the soul was a cloud of smoke, reeking of the pungent smell of gunpowder. Black, the ground was thick with black smoke, flashing with the light of bombs and grenades. It's not the sweet, cool mist that appears every morning, nor is it the clear scent of grass or fireworks exploding brilliantly in the sky.

Blood is shed, a lot of blood is shed. Penetrating into the dry ground, it felt like every step was stepping on them. The grass cannot grow, it is no longer green. All things are bare and can only outline something restless: harsh black lines and a white paper background.

You are almost crazy in this war. Your mind is tortured and tortured every day. All you were thinking about was deserting. But the afternoon you finally decided to sneak out of the base through the back entrance, you suddenly caught China smoking right there.

---

He looked straight at you, as if he had been waiting for a long time. Stiff smile. Empty eyes.

“Comrade, where are you going?”