Xu Lei - Search for the Buried Bomber

The sensitivity of the times cut two ways: On the one hand, the activities of these Kuomintang spies had indeed thrown China into turmoil. On the other, they’d also led to a fervor of false accusations and an atmosphere of general mistrust, resulting in a huge number of wrongful arrests and unjustified cases. Some of these stemmed from such insignificant reasons that their absurdity was terrifying. The note writer was probably just swept up in the feverish suspicions of those times. This kind of person was very common back then—the inveterate schemer, overthinking everything. He probably believed that Pei Qing was a spy, that the young soldier had not accidentally fallen to his death, but had been pushed.

But who the hell had written it? The question ate at me. It obviously hadn’t been Wang Sichuan, nor could it have been any of the soldiers. That left only Chen Luohu, already withered from fear and having just slunk off to who knows where. He was just the type to have done it. He’d said nothing since the accident, probably because he’d been the one who first suggested we continue on. Since this had most likely influenced Pei Qing’s decision to explore the route ahead, and thus had led to the accident, Chen Luohu had to be scared he might somehow be implicated in the soldier’s death.

In any case, I didn’t take the note seriously. I knew Pei Qing’s background. We were alumni of the same department at the Chinese Geological University, though I had been one year above him. At school he’d always been a logical, clear-thinking student. No way would he have ever become an enemy agent. As for Chen Luohu, he already seemed to be a rather useless character, and I had begun to feel a growing dislike for the man. So I threw the note into the fire, pulled out my cigarettes, and began to smoke, unconcerned about anything or anyone else. Before long I had forgotten all about the note. We set off once more, scrambled down the waterfall, and by that evening had traveled nearly another kilometer. Here there were no more body bags and, because we had slept so poorly the night before, we neglected to even eat dinner before heading to bed. It wasn’t even five p.m.

I awoke at ten that night. I had slept like a dead man, but once I opened my eyes I could sleep no more. There remained a single soldier keeping watch over camp. He was feeling rather embarrassed about having thoughtlessly fallen asleep while he stood sentry, so I told him I would take his place. He refused to leave his post. I didn’t force the issue. I had served in the regular army and understood that mentality. Once again I was starving to death. I found some rations and set them to boil. As the smell of cooking food began to waft through the air, Wang Sichuan and the other two came stumbling over, one after the other. They all crowded around. After having traveled at a fast clip all day and then falling asleep on an empty stomach, everyone was terribly hungry. One pot of food was not enough. I cooked another half pot. Fortunately, our superiors had been generous in estimating how long the exploration would take. Our stock of food would last another week, though none of us believed we’d be down here that long. Although our condensed field rations did contain additional dehydrated vegetable powder, eating too much would undoubtedly be harmful to one’s health. As for the few condensed vegetable packs we carried with us, they tasted disgusting.

Our spirits improved with dinner, and after smoking a postmeal cigarette, we felt invincible. Once more we attempted to cajole the soldier on watch into taking a break, but again he refused. Wang Sichuan handed him a few cigarettes, and these at least he accepted. We ached all over. As we relaxed, we alternated between massaging our sore spots and pondering what the next day would bring. Who knew what the rest of our route would be like? If it continued like this the whole way, then we’d better leave our rafts here. Otherwise, if today’s progress was any indication, we’d never have enough food or supplies to make it back out.

The way Pei Qing saw it, someone should be sent ahead to investigate the route while the rest of us stayed behind. In six or seven hours, this person would be able to travel a long way. When he returned, we’d have a much clearer idea of what we were facing. This idea didn’t sit well with me. After yesterday’s events, any proposal that involved splitting the group seemed unsafe. Wang Sichuan, however, agreed with Pei Qing’s suggestion. Given how slowly we were progressing, the most pressing issue was the fuel for our lanterns and the batteries for our flashlights. Without those tools, we’d be dead meat in a place as dark as this. Thus, sending someone ahead to explore had an additional benefit: it would allow us to familiarize ourselves with the route and cut down on the use of lights when we continued on as a group. Wang Sichuan said that if I was worried about the danger, we could send half the group on ahead, as opposed to just one or two people. Yesterday’s accident had occurred due to recklessness, he said, and added that if he’d been there, he would have warned the soldier to be careful. Pei Qing regarded Wang Sichuan coldly. It was obvious he’d been speaking to Pei Qing. Wang Sichuan was about to say something else, but I stopped him.

Wang Sichuan was a superb fellow in every respect, but he was too righteous for his own good. The accident had already occurred, and now all we could do was accept it. Staring at Pei Qing and blaming him for what had happened was simply a way for Wang Sichuan to escape the reality of the situation. I was convinced that Pei Qing felt awful inside. Moreover, even if he’d managed to stop the young soldier from climbing down and gone himself instead, there was no way to say that a tragedy would have been prevented. Just because Pei Qing was more experienced, it by no means meant that he would have discovered the iron netting before it was too late. In the end, it could very well have been Pei Qing, not the soldier, who lost his footing and fell to his death. But this wasn’t something that Wang Sichuan wanted to hear.

Then, as the atmosphere grew tense once more, a metallic clang suddenly rang out. We all jumped. The pealing of metal striking rock was amplified, bouncing off the cave walls, becoming nearly unbearable. Turning, I saw Chen Luohu had dropped the large metal basin he’d been eating from, spraying rice gruel all over the ground. He was looking in our direction, his body trembling all over. Wang Sichuan gave him a look of irritation and asked what the hell was the matter. The sentry turned from behind Chen Luohu and, as he rotated, the look on his face changed. With a clack he pulled back the rifle bolt and, his voice quavering, began to yell: “Squad leader! Deputy squad leader!”

We all turned to where Chen Luohu was looking. Cold sweat covered my body. There, standing on the rock opposite, someone had appeared. The stranger stared at us, not moving, not saying a word.

The boulder we were camped on was relatively large, the rocks surrounding it all at least fifteen feet from us. Beneath us we could hear the constant trickle of the river flowing under the rocky shoal. The flickering light of our campfire illuminated the outline of the stranger’s body, but the face remained darkened. The members of our group were all accounted for. This person was not one of us. But we were in a section of pitch-black river deep underground, two hundred feet from the nearest point on the surface, the devil only knows how far from the closest village. Who else could possibly be down here?