Chapter 53: The Camp

He was still considering what else to write when shouting erupted outside. Wu Nanhai from the Agriculture Group had gotten into an argument with He Ping, the man Shi Niaoren had sent to disinfect the latrine, and now Wu came storming over demanding an explanation. He Ping had worked at a state pharmaceutical factory before crossing, but he'd actually been in equipment maintenance—he knew nothing about pharmacology. The Health Group had requested him only because his wife, Zhao Yanmei, was a technician at the factory's mold-culture seed lab. Shi Niaoren was planning future pharmaceutical projects and needed to secure her first. Naturally, keeping a wife meant keeping her husband too.

He Ping had a square face and glasses, a scholarly look about him. He'd simply become the Health Group's clerk—running errands and handling odd jobs. How had such a man gotten into a fight?

Stepping outside, Shi Niaoren found the portly Wu Nanhai gripping He Ping by the arm, face flushed with indignation. He Ping stood there looking aggrieved, still clutching a nylon bag of lime.

"Did you order him to spread this?" Seeing the boss emerge, Wu Nanhai redirected his fury at Shi Niaoren.

"What? Is there a problem? The Health Group is disinfecting the latrine."

"Do you understand chemistry?" Wu Nanhai jabbed a finger at the lime. "Manure is nitrogenous fertilizer. It cannot be mixed with alkaline materials like plant ash and lime—mixing them neutralizes the nitrogen. You have someone dumping lime everywhere, and now what use is the latrine's waste?!"

Shi Niaoren's expression darkened. He was, after all, a US-trained PhD, a medical beast who'd operated in American hospitals and handled epidemics in Beijing. Being lectured about chemistry by an agricultural-college undergrad was embarrassing. But on reflection, Wu Nanhai headed Agriculture and sat on the Committee. Agriculture was a priority industry the Committee planned to push hard—future logistics would depend heavily on their output. He himself headed Health. If department heads clashed openly, there would be no room for maneuvering later. He swallowed his anger. In truth, he hadn't considered the fertilizer issue at all. Using lime to disinfect latrines was the simplest and most common method; when treating infectious patients' waste, it was practically standard procedure.

"We overlooked this." Shi Niaoren apologized quickly and sweet-talked Wu Nanhai until the man finally left. Xiao He wore an unhappy expression—he'd been scolded for following orders.

"It's just shit. He can just make more!"

"We're learning through practice," Dr. Shi soothed his subordinate. "Wu Nanhai needs fertilizer for agriculture—something about 'crops need flowers' or whatever." He glanced at the lime bag—barely used. He'd obtained it from the Building Engineering Department, having been reluctant to use bleaching powder, which he'd earmarked for drinking-water treatment.

No lime, no bleaching powder—waste treatment would need another approach. Shi Niaoren specialized in infectious diseases and was well-versed in epidemic prevention. He knew there were many methods for waste decontamination. Lime and bleaching powder worked quickly, but without those, the simplest option was sealed storage. That required three-stage septic tanks, or at minimum some fermentation jars. What about natural plants? He recalled reading that certain wild plants could serve as substitutes. The problem was that he couldn't remember which ones, and he'd never studied traditional Chinese medicine—even knowing the names, he might not recognize them in the field.

He was thinking about filing a report to ask where he could find TCM experts when Tian Jiujiu walked in, asking what water-treatment method the Health Group planned to use so they could finalize the water-supply construction plan.

"One goes out, another comes in," Shi Niaoren muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing—I'll come to the site now."

The water-supply system fell under the Health Group's direct control. Bopu's shallow groundwater was too brackish for drinking, and they had no capacity yet to tap deep aquifers. The only option was to draw from the Wenlan River.

For drinking water, springs or deep groundwater were ideal. A river like the Wenlan had substantial flow and reasonable self-purification capacity, so it was usable. But this was river-delta territory; water quality was generally more polluted and would require complex treatment.

Shi Niaoren tested the depth and flow, then drew a 250-milliliter sample from fifty centimeters below the surface. Without proper testing equipment, he could only rely on basic observation and smell.

The results made him shake his head. He'd assumed seventeenth-century pollution levels would mean pristine river water. Instead, though sediment was low, algae bloomed in abundance—indicating excessive organic matter. In modern times, this would be unsurprising, the result of chemical runoff. But the Ming Dynasty had no chemical fertilizers. Such high organic content meant the upper and middle reaches were developed agricultural or residential zones.

Still, the water was usable. By Shi Niaoren's observation, it met at least Class III standards by modern metrics—some modern city water plants' intake points didn't even reach that level.

But for drinking water, this quality demanded complex sedimentation, filtration, and disinfection. Any supply system would need settling ponds, filter wells, disinfection pools, channels—for the materials-starved Engineering Group, this was pure fantasy.

Considering the antiquated state of infectious-disease conditions—cholera and typhoid bacteria in the water were highly probable—Shi Niaoren reached his conclusion: until proper water-treatment facilities could be built, they shouldn't use river water at all.

"Just keep shipping freshwater from the ship to shore." He sighed and went directly to report to Ma Qianzhu.

Ma Qianzhu didn't fully understand the ship's freshwater situation and called Meng De for clarification.

"The ship has water, but not for long," Meng De explained. Typical ships had at least two freshwater tanks. One stored potable water—freshwater piped in at port. The other stored utility water—distilled water condensed from the main engine's cooling system. This desalinated soft water was normally for washing, not drinking, but if potable water ran short, it could serve in a pinch.

The Fengcheng, designed as an ocean-going vessel, had four freshwater tanks with substantial capacity. But the original design assumed forty to fifty crew; nearly six hundred people now strained it beyond reason. The auxiliary engine produced limited distilled water—not nearly enough to sustain large-scale, long-term supply.

"Using the auxiliary for freshwater!" Ma Qianzhu frowned after the report. "Trading diesel for water! Rivers don't flow with diesel."

Shi Niaoren knew Ma grudged the fuel, but he also knew Lingao's history: cholera, typhoid, paratyphoid—intestinal infections had been widespread here. Even in the 1970s and 80s, small outbreaks still occurred. Modern medicine meant the transmigrators had been vaccinated, but nothing was guaranteed. Even if they avoided the worst infectious diseases, an acute enteritis outbreak would be bad enough.

After Shi Niaoren laid out the pros and cons, Ma Qianzhu accepted the recommendation. To conserve water, Command issued their decision: establish a centralized water station on shore; lay water lines along the floating-drum route, piping ship freshwater to a two-ton stainless-steel tank in the living area—for drinking and washing only.

"As for bathing—just tough it out for now." Ma Qianzhu knew this water-rationing policy would earn countless curses, but there was no choice. He sat down to draft a document and sent it via OA. "Building materials," he noted in his memo. Many of today's problems traced back to this bottleneck. Tonight's meeting would have to address it.

Dusk deepened, and D-Day's daylight was ending. As walkie-talkies crackled with announcements to knock off, transmigrators who'd worked all day at outlying sites began trickling back toward camp in twos and threes.

The Logging Group returned from the mangroves, chatting with tools slung over their shoulders. Though physically exhausted, everyone carried something fervent in their hearts, and the bonds between them had clearly strengthened.

The tide was ebbing. Seawater washed over the bay's rocks, large and small alike. In the distance, the silhouette of Lingao Cape emerged on the western horizon. The crimson sun sank slowly through scattered clouds, painting the sky in brilliant streaks of color. Light and sea merged over Bopu Bay, the water glittering as if ablaze, turned to brilliant gold and red.

The transmigrators' fleet lay at anchor in the bay. Dark ship silhouettes were edged with radiant gold from the dying light. These utterly ordinary cargo ships and fishing boats, in this moment, seemed as magnificent as an imperial fleet gathered at Scapa Flow.

The majestic scene intoxicated them into wordless silence. Not just them—transmigrators returning from other work sites also slowed their pace, gazing at the splendid view.

"Let's move, everyone—it's getting dark." Military Group personnel at the rear called out while checking for stragglers. Per the plan, they would bring up the rear, ensuring no one remained outside camp after dark.

"Blockhouse!" someone shouted. Looking toward camp, the beacon tower now had an earthen rampart around it, topped with barbed wire. At first glance, it really did look like one of those Japanese pillboxes from old war films.

After a day's construction, the camp had taken basic shape. Centered on the beacon tower and patrol-office buildings, it formed an irregular pentagon. The outer perimeter featured a ditch five meters wide and two meters deep, filled with water from the Wenlan River. The inner bank rose a meter higher than the outer, topped with barbed wire—two meters high, secured with cross-braced wooden posts firmly buried in the earth. Concertina wire ran along the base. Behind the wire, excavated earth formed a long rampart with trenches dug along the top. Six wooden watchtowers, each eight meters tall, stood at intervals along the rampart.

Now torches lined the perimeter, their flames brightly illuminating the ditch below. The camp gate stood open. On the gatehouse above, two sentries with rifles flanked a searchlight. Two carbide lamps hung below, blindingly bright. Travelers passed through the gate, scanned their dog tags at the Personnel registration point, then returned tools and excess materials at the Planning Committee depot.

"Liu Zheng, right?" The Personnel Group clerk checked the ID photo and personal info on screen, comparing it to his face. "Your barracks assignment is Building B, Number 14."

(End of Chapter)