Chapter 158: Winning Hearts and Minds (Part 1)

The New Army had been training for half a month when Ma Qianzhu's patience finally wore thin. He cornered Wei Aiwen with a look of mounting concern. "Little Wei, when exactly do you plan to start political training? You've had your company for two weeks now. The other companies began days ago, and yours is supposed to be the Training Battalion's demonstration unit—you're meant to lead by example!"

Wei Aiwen only smiled, utterly unruffled. "Chief of Staff Ma, relax. Tonight we're holding a meeting. I guarantee you'll be satisfied."

"You'd better do it well," Ma Qianzhu replied, skeptical but unwilling to press the matter further.

In truth, Wei Aiwen had been far from idle. Determined to ensure good results, he had racked his brains for the right approach. Beyond integrating himself deeply with the company and learning each soldier's circumstances, he had conducted reconnaissance of sorts—observing how political training unfolded in the other units. What he found was dreary fare: dry lectures, leaders droning through speeches and political reports, heavy-handed literacy campaigns conducted in stifling classroom settings. A sudden inspiration struck him. Why not try something retro-innovative?

Darkness descended, and stars emerged to blanket the canopy of night. This was nothing like the twenty-first-century cities Wei Aiwen remembered, where streetlights and glowing windows washed out the heavens until only the brightest stars remained visible. Here there was no light pollution, no smog. The camp had no lights—no one dared waste precious electricity—and the farmers retired early, leaving complete darkness to settle over everything. A half-moon climbed the eastern horizon, casting silvery radiance across the land. Overhead, the Milky Way stretched in a luminous band from east to west, its countless stars clustered so densely that their three-dimensional depth was visible to the naked eye. Wei Aiwen gazed upward, transfixed. City-raised kids had never witnessed such sights.

The recruits assembled in a huddled circle beneath the open sky, bracing against the evening chill. Lingao's subtropical climate kept winter temperatures above twenty degrees Celsius—too warm for bonfires to offer comfort rather than discomfort. A single kerosene lamp sat at the center of their gathering. Its red flame danced atop a cotton wick, sending up threads of gray-black smoke that slowly darkened the brass handle.

Firelight flickered across the soldiers' faces. Curiosity filled the air. Their new company commander, "Chief" Wei, had summoned them for this mysterious "political training" meeting. What would it entail?

Wei Aiwen rose and surveyed his surroundings. "You've all gathered here for political training—a themed company meeting. The theme is: 'Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow.' I want you to speak honestly and freely. Share your past experiences, describe your current situations, and imagine what your futures might hold."

The soldiers exchanged uncertain glances. What was this supposed to be? No one knew how to respond. No one spoke. The atmosphere turned cold and uncomfortably quiet.

Wei Aiwen had anticipated this. New things always required an acceptance process. "I'll start, then." He had a plan: he would use this opportunity to fabricate a tragic past. Sharing such a story would help break down the barriers between himself and his men.

"Let me sing first." He tilted his head slightly, gazing at the moon rising in the east. He drew a deep breath, gathered his emotions, and began to sing softly:

Stars fill the sky, the crescent moon gleaming bright. Our company holds a meeting—pouring out our plight. The evil landlord owes the poor a debt of blood, Countless threads of sorrow surge like a flood. Endless bitter tears hang heavy in the heart, Never forget that year—when the north wind tore us apart. The landlord invaded my home—thugs in a gang, Said we owed him debts—with a cruel fang. The landlord collecting debts—like a living King of Hell, Never forget that year—when father fell ill. Landlord forced labor—he coughed up blood, Skin and bones thin—face like yellow mud. Black-hearted landlord killed my parents dear, Never forget that year—endless suffering and fear. Desperate, I entered the tiger's den—herding his cattle, Rising at midnight—fighting a losing battle. Pitiful orphan—where to cry?

His low voice carried a crying inflection, each note trembling with grief until it sounded like a truly plaintive wail. The soldiers felt something stir within them. Some, remembering their own pasts, found their eyes reddening. Others began to softly sob.

Wei Aiwen himself felt a spiritual shock. The scene, the atmosphere—it filled him with an unexpected heaviness. He had originally discovered this song online and learned it for amusement, finding the lyrics quaintly amusing. He hadn't expected it to carry such power. When he'd sung it back then, he hadn't felt the bleakness, the bitterness, the resentment that now hung thick in the air. Watching the soldiers' reactions, a wry thought crossed his mind: These brothers have learned their Mandarin well.

Someone grasped Wei Aiwen's hand. It was Wang Tao, a fellow transmigrator—a northerner, tall and imposing, who stood out conspicuously among the shorter natives. In his former life, he had been a corporate trainer and an excellent storyteller, a professional bullshitter if there ever was one. He had been deliberately planted in the ranks to help coordinate exactly this kind of thing. "Captain," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "don't be sad. Our company is your family. Everyone here is your brother—your family."

Wang Tao choked up and couldn't continue. He sniffled loudly, then launched into his own tale. "My family had about ten mu of land. Good land—the harvest was enough for a family of four to live on for a year. But that Zhang-juren coveted it. He kept insisting on buying it, and my father absolutely refused. That land was our whole family's lifeline! So the landlord constantly sought opportunities to seize it." Wang Tao's voice dropped lower, heavier. "One year, our ox got loose and nibbled some grass in the landlord's graveyard. He claimed it ruined the feng shui. He had my father arrested and severely beaten. Father was old—he couldn't withstand it. He was carried home, and three days later—" Wang Tao's throat seemed to close up entirely. His expression turned sorrowful, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. After a long, agonizing pause, he recovered his voice. "Mother was already frail. The shock was too much for her—within days, she followed father." Finally, he broke. Tears rolled down his soot-stained cheeks.

Wei Aiwen stared in amazement. Brother, are you from the Beijing Film Academy or the Central Drama Academy?

"Shortly after," Wang Tao continued through his sobs, "our house caught fire. They accused me of arson—wanted me arrested and tried. Poor families can't win lawsuits against landlords! Panicked, we fled overnight. After reaching the county seat, I later sent someone to check on our home. They found our land had been seized by Zhang-juren. My little sister had been captured and made a servant in his household. He called it compensation for his losses." Wang Tao's voice cracked. "Later, she was sold to some unknown place. My little sister, she..." He dissolved into uncontrollable sobs.

Brilliant! Wei Aiwen secretly admired the performance.

A young soldier couldn't contain himself any longer. "Absolutely unconscionable!"

"I worked for local Chen Yunkai as a farmhand—herding ducks." Another soldier rose, his voice bitter with old wounds. "That black-hearted bastard! When a weasel snatched one duckling, he whipped me hard and then recorded in his ledger the loss of an adult duck. Normally I ate his family's leftovers and spoiled food—I was never full—yet he recorded good meals. When it was cold, if I got sick and couldn't work, he pretended generosity by giving me worn rags—then recorded the price of new clothes. Sometimes, burning with fever and clenching my teeth, I still herded—but he recorded sick absences!" The young soldier's jaw tightened, his eyes reflecting the lamplight like shooting flames. "At year-end, he showed me the accounts. According to his figures, I actually owed him! I argued, but he ignored me. I cried bitterly, and he offered fake sympathy: 'Can't bear leaving me? Keep working next year.' Infuriating!"

That opening unleashed a flood. One after another, the soldiers rose to pour forth their pent-up bitterness. Each story outdid the last in misery.

"I'm from a military household. My ancestors held xiaoqi rank. But for generations, we were nothing but the officers' unpaid servants! Forget brotherhood—slow work meant being beaten half to death. Those beaten to death were just dragged out. Nobody asked questions, nobody dared. Outside the garrison, one death meant an official report. Inside the garrison, we were worth no more than dead dogs. People say county magistrates are ruthless—but the darkness of the garrison is countless times worse!"

Wei Aiwen knew this man came from a military household. Wanting to reduce the soldiers' fear of regular troops, he deliberately asked, "Wasn't combat dangerous?"

The military household soldier smiled bitterly. "Combat? Us military households—with trousers showing our buttocks—fight whom? We're worse off than commoners. When provincial commanders recruit, commoners receive settlement money and grain. For military households, everything is stolen by the baihu and qianhu officers. Joining the garrison just means getting fed. Those who aren't favorites, who aren't relatives—some starve to death." He spat in disgust. "Only fools die for officials! Regular troops—'official' sounds impressive—but they're worse than bandits. They terrorize commoners more than anyone. And when fighting comes, they're more cowardly than anyone."

Wang Tao quickly added fuel to the fire. "Right, right—I fled from the north. I heard that in Liaodong, thousands of regulars couldn't defeat a few hundred Tartars. Worst of all: a dozen Tartars once chased hundreds of soldiers, and the runaways literally died of exhaustion. Under those conditions, what's the point of fighting?" He wiped his tears. "One kinsman of mine couldn't survive anymore—he joined the Liao garrison. Don't know now if he's alive or dead."

Another soldier sighed heavily. "Every family is the same. If officials didn't push so hard, forcing poor people to desperation, who'd take such risks? Our family traveled thousands of li to Qiongzhou. We thought wasteland was plentiful—that we could scrape by somehow. We didn't know farming here was even harder—no irrigation, forced to buy the landlord's water. We suffered countless times worse than in our homeland! It was a living death for the whole family—and now I'm the only one left."

Wang Tao exploited the opening. "These masters here are good. I fled here as a laborer—and now I'm well-fed and well-clothed. The Masters even pay wages. The commune's best workers live in multi-story buildings!"

"Buildings?" Someone's voice dripped with doubt. "Like the short-hair masters' brick buildings? Nonsense."

"Nonsense? Come with me to the Commune tomorrow!"

"If it's really true—" One recruit spoke wistfully, a longing quality entering his voice. "I don't need buildings. Just a leak-proof shack—I'd be satisfied."

"It's true." A commune-enlisted soldier confirmed the claim. "But you need worker status. That's why I enlisted—soldiers become workers."

"You also get private plots for farming," another commune soldier added. They especially valued those plots.

"Can we have those too?" someone asked timidly.

(End of Chapter)