The little path was paved with flagstones, moss growing over their surfaces and grass sprouting from the staggered cracks between them. But it had all been trampled into rotten roots, packed densely into the gaps.
A squad of wounded soldiers limped down the path. Their uniforms were filthy, some even torn. The grime they scrubbed from their exposed skin could fill a whole plate. Their hair was tangled and matted into clumps, probably enough to pick a few lice out of.
Wang Yan was mixed in with them, just as bedraggled. The one thing he had going for him was that he had no blood-seeping bandages wrapped around his body. He carried a Type 24 rifle with a bayonet over his shoulder, and a cloth bandolier hung from his body, holding a dozen or so rounds.
He was fairly tall, making him stand out among the group.
So the head of the receiving station arranged a place for him first.
"You big fellow from Northeast China, and the few beside you—this courtyard is yours." He patted Wang Yan on the shoulder. "Don't say Old Deng isn't looking out for you. There are fellow Northeasterners in there, two of them in fact. Just the thing for you to reunite with your kin. Ah, these days, nobody has it easy..."
"Thanks, Old Deng." Wang Yan took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one for him with a kerosene lighter, and clicked his tongue. "Say, you're an official of some rank. How come you're so lacking in ambition? Still eyeing the things of a common soldier like me?"
Old Deng showed no shame at all, puffing out a mouthful of smoke. "This thing of yours is something new. Where'd you get it?"
"Killed a Japanese major and found it on him."
"Whoa, really?