Xu Lei - Search for the Buried Bomber

I wiped the water from my eyes and looked around. The rock waterfall was not much higher than the cliff we’d just left. As I looked back, I saw Pei Qing slowly making his way over to us, pulling himself hand over hand along the wall. He was slow as an old man, but didn’t appear to be in any trouble. Once more the strange black shape flashed through my mind. It was nowhere to be seen. Could I have been mistaken again? I wondered. Was it perhaps some trick of light and shadow? Enough, I thought. I calmed myself down and watched as Pei Qing arrived safe and sound. He was pulled up onto the bank and, gasping for breath, immediately lay down against the rock, his face in his hands.

I berated myself for being so gullible, though it was pretty funny that I’d believed Pei Qing’s excuses. Now that we’d all made it, Wang Sichuan asked me what the hell had taken us so long. Still panting, I told him to ask me later. I didn’t have the strength to get into it yet. He clapped us on the back and said we’d better keep climbing, all the way to the waterline if possible. The water continued to rise with menacing speed. Soon this platform would be submerged as well.

We all nodded. With a burst of energy, the deputy squad leader rose to his feet and began to climb. One by one the rest of us followed. I was still exhausted and waited until almost everyone else was on the wall before beginning. Pei Qing was in even worse shape, so I clapped him on the back and attempted to rouse him. If he were the last to go and somehow fell, there’d be no one left to help him back up. He sat looking at the water, as if some fear still lingered in his heart. Then he stood up, slapped me on the back, and, grinning at me, began to laugh. He turned to the wall and started to climb. Something was wrong. Pei Qing never laughed. What was there to laugh about, and why so strangely? Could he be embarrassed about what had happened? Then Wang Sichuan swore loudly at us from above, complaining that we were always the last ones, so I hurriedly began my climb.

Most underground waterfalls are created by large cracks that open within the rock strata above a cave. Once enough water has poured through these cracks, the calcium carbonate that lines the rock walls is worn away, leaving curtains and flowers of curling stone. These formations were our hand- and footholds as we ascended the falls. Many of them were soft and brittle, splitting beneath our feet, any remaining sense of security fleeing as they crumbled. We continued this slow and nerve-racking ascent until we reached the highest point of the falls. It seemed barely an improvement over the precipice we’d just left. Still, the feeling of imminent doom began to ease slightly. After each of us had found a stable spot to stand on, we began to scan the opposite wall with our flashlights, searching for an escape from the rising water. Our luck appeared to have run out. The wall was almost entirely bare. There was a single outcropping that looked as if it might support our weight, but it was some distance upriver. Given the ferocity of the current, it was clear we’d never make it. The hope we’d felt climbing the falls only amplified our current despair. Any chance of survival had been utterly dashed. Even Wang Sichuan gave up trying. All of us just sat there in silence, glumly watching the water continue its relentless approach.

Then, just as the water had risen to our heels, Wang Sichuan began to sing:

This was “The Prospector’s Song.” It was the romanticism of this song that made me first decide to become a prospector. Now, these long, dull years of work had all but worn away that youthful passion. I would never have expected Wang Sichuan to sing it now. Though we were facing death, I hadn’t felt much of anything, but listening to Wang Sichuan sing with his harsh, gonglike voice, I felt once more traces of the romanticism I had sought as a youth. The rest of us joined in, almost involuntarily, and as we sang that familiar song, our fear began to slip away.

Our situation didn’t change, however. No matter how beautifully we sang—nor how awfully Wang Sichuan did—the water continued to rise. In a moment it was above our ankles. Closing our eyes, we sang with all our might. When Buddhists or Christians face death, they can use texts given to them by God to pray their fear be lessened. For us atheists, all that remained was to hope the remembered passion of our younger selves might somehow banish death. Huddled tightly against the rock, we waited for the end to come. The water rose above our knees, our waists, our stomachs. When it reached our chests, the pressure was too great and we could sing no longer.

Suddenly I heard Wang Sichuan yell out, his voice hoarse from singing. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I noticed something strange on the water. From somewhere in the distant dark there appeared a blinding light. A moment later, four oxskin rafts floated into view. At first I was sure it had to be an illusion, but as the boats drew closer I could see that none other than Old Cat was squatting at the head of the first raft. A cigarette dangled loosely from his mouth. As he beheld our looks of utter terror and despair, I could see him smirk.

One by one we were lifted onto the raft. Wang Sichuan knelt down and kissed its old, worn exterior—just as his ancestors had once knelt and kissed the vast grasslands. I, on the other hand, lay stock-still, my head resting on the side of the raft, darkness slowly filling my vision. All that had just happened: that strange and gravelly sound, the rushing water, the bitter cold, the terror, and our final song—everything, everything!—swirled together as a kind of vortex or whirlpool. I watched as it slowly spun farther and farther away from me. Death had been so close at hand. Now it seemed like only a dream.

Just as I was about to faint, someone propped me up and helped remove my clothes. Only then did the cold I had endured for so long begin to hurt. After taking off our clothes, we wrapped ourselves in blankets and slowly regained some of our spirit. Shivering, I looked around at the men who had rescued me. Two of them were fellow military prospectors, though I barely knew them. The rest were engineering corpsmen I had never met before. The only familiar face was Old Cat, still crouched at the head of the boat.

After drying himself off, Wang Sichuan asked what was going on—how had they managed to arrive just in time? According to one of the engineering corpsmen, the main campsite had sent out a cable this morning saying there had been torrential rain at the upper reaches of the Kachar River, some twenty kilometers away. The cable cautioned that a spring tide—during which the river would rise to its highest level—was likely. Old Cat was at camp when he heard this news. He went at once to find the colonel and tell him it was probable that the underground river would rise. At first the colonel didn’t believe him, but Old Cat persisted, and so a rescue team was organized. And just in time too, said the corpsman. If they’d arrived only a little later, this wouldn’t have been a rescue mission. They’d just be dredging up bodies.