Chapter 751 – Homecoming (Part 2)

The moment Fu Fu arrived at the platform, people began begging him to read the schedule and stops posted on the wooden board. He read them out one by one, reaping thanks and envious glances—making him a little self-conscious.

One perk of serving in the Army was that Fu Fu had passed the C-grade literacy exam. Reading pamphlets and newspapers was no longer difficult. In the past, he had seen no point in learning to read, but once he joined up he discovered that illiterates couldn't even understand the basic Soldier's Handbook, couldn't make sense of maps or instructions written on the blackboard during training. He had to ask others to explain every order, every notice, every Soldiers' Committee mess-fee accounting the company posted—an unpleasant feeling that made him sense he was excluded from the collective. That lit a fire under him to study. He enrolled in the night-school literacy class and quickly passed the basic reading test, though earning the C-grade certificate cost him considerable effort. Mathematics was his weak point; most natives had no mathematical sense whatsoever. Many couldn't even state their own age, let alone grasp the concept of time. The C-grade math requirement was thus minimal: recognize numerals, read a calendar and clock, and handle addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division up to a hundred.

Since watchmaking was not yet in mass production, public timekeeping in Lingao still relied on traditional audio signals. Areas with loudspeakers used wired broadcasting to announce the time; elsewhere, factory whistles served the purpose. The Ma'ao transfer station, as a major transportation hub, had been fitted with a wired broadcast system. Besides telling time, it also educated and propagandized to the waiting public.

At the moment, the loudspeaker was droning on about the "spirit of the Autumn Tax Work Conference." Thanks to daily exposure to the broadcasts, villagers could now partly understand the "new speech," and they knew this concerned the autumn levy. Everyone was listening intently.

Fu Fu owned no land; how much tax Fu Bu'er paid was none of his concern. Sitting on a wooden bench, he busied himself planning his itinerary—what extra gifts to buy for everyone once he reached the East Gate Market. Although he felt no deep affection for Fu Bu'er and his wife, and although he was no longer Fu Bu'er's bond-servant—having already processed his "deregistration" under the "Procedures for Handling the Personal Civil Status of Soldiers Prior to Enlistment" issued jointly by the General Staff's Political Department and the Civil Affairs People's Committee—the Fu household was still the closest thing he had to a home.

While he was lost in thought, someone tapped his shoulder. Startled, Fu Fu turned to see a middle-aged man wearing a half-black gauze cap, a local blue-cloth jacket, plain-cotton socks, cloth shoes, and a cloth money-pouch slung over his shoulder. He looked like a petty landlord or small merchant.

"Soldier, sir," the man said quietly, "since you serve our leaders, you must understand the new speech, right?"

"I do." Fu Fu nodded. All orders in the military, spoken or written, were in the new speech; understanding it was mandatory. The transmigrators had no interest in maintaining a dialect showcase in their territory.

"Please, tell me—what exactly is that box saying?" the man pleaded. "I can't make out the new speech. Folks say it's about this year's autumn levy..."

"Help others cheerfully" and "the army and people are one family"—these concepts were constantly drilled into soldiers. Fu Fu's head was full of them. When a civilian had a question, he naturally lent a hand.

The broadcast cycled, playing a musical interlude before repeating. Unfortunately, too many unfamiliar new-speech terms made it hard to follow. Luckily, his unit had recently organized officers and enlisted men to study the new tax system, and Wei Aiwen hoped soldiers returning on leave would serve as volunteer propagandists and instructors.

"The broadcast is saying that this year's autumn levy is calculated by acreage—" Fu Fu gestured as he explained what he could. The new agricultural tax was based on the standardized acreage owned by each household as determined during last year's land survey, weighted by soil quality. The overall concept was progressive: agricultural tax throughout the county was divided into five brackets. The more land you owned and the more fertile it was, the higher your tax rate.

"Isn't that robbing the rich—" The man blurted it out, then realized he was speaking to someone "on the public payroll." Alarmed, he swallowed the second half of his sentence and looked at Fu Fu fearfully.

Fu Fu knew that according to the Soldier's Handbook, explaining government policy to civilians was an important duty—all the more so since they had specifically studied the documents and had some grasp of the leadership's intentions.

"Looking at you, sir, I'd say you're a grain-paying household?"

"We have a few acres," the man said, his expression growing more uneasy. "We don't live extravagantly..."

"No need to plead poverty." Fu Fu found it almost amusing; the man looked as if he expected to be extorted on the spot. "Even if you're in the highest bracket, it's only a tithe—how heavy a burden can that be? Now that the Australians are collecting taxes, there's no 'surcharge,' no 'special levy,' and the grain collectors who come to the villages don't expect you to pay for their straw sandals—they bring their own rations. In the old days the regular levy was small, but the surcharges were many, and the customary fees even more. Then there were the 'patriotic contributions' and 'community-granary grain' from the local authorities. Now you pay only the regular levy, and that's that. Do the math yourself, sir—are you paying more or less than before?"

The man nodded thoughtfully. "You make a good point, young fellow."

"And look—what the leaders collect in taxes comes right back to serve us common folk. See how smooth and flat this road is? And this ox-cart station. Year after year the old government squeezed money and grain out of everyone, yet when we went anywhere there wasn't even a decent road. Building a wooden bridge meant neighbors chipping in. The difference is night and day."

These were all things the officers said during political study sessions. Fu Fu found them reasonable and persuasive, so he rolled them out fresh from the lessons.

Ordinary country folk were mostly the taciturn sort, and even small-to-medium landlords were no exception. Confronted with such arguments, the man was left speechless—Fu Fu had all the logic on his side. Though it grated a bit to think that owning more land meant paying more tax, his belly full of grievances suddenly seemed to have no leg to stand on. Country people lacked the ability to engage in deep dialectical reasoning, but they saw questions of self-interest with perfect clarity. Fu Fu's comparison of past and present instantly showed the man whose interests had been harmed most and whose policies benefited him more.

"The 12:30 ox-cart to Bopu will be departing shortly!" A native attendant bellowed through a tin megaphone on the platform. Another employee hurried over and used a long pole to flip the hinged destination and departure boards hanging from the frame.

Fu Fu grabbed his pack and got in line. Military discipline had been drilled into him, but the finer points of civic virtue had clearly not yet penetrated the countryside. Fu Fu thus became a convenient example for the station staff.

"Take a look at our Fubo Army soldier—he queues up without being told. And some of these older folks here—you should be setting an example for the young." The native attendants were well-trained speakers, and the rattan sticks in their hands made a persuasive argument. Order was soon restored.

The four-wheeled ox-cart looked heavy but was actually quite light—thanks to extensive use of steel components that greatly reduced weight while maintaining structural strength. The seats were arranged three across, six rows deep, seating eighteen. With the driver and conductor each having a seat alongside, total capacity was twenty. Luggage was hung from the outside of the vehicle. Four bulls provided the motive power.

"Have a seat next to me, young fellow." The conductor patted the wooden seat beside him.

"Thanks." Fu Fu tossed his bedroll bag onto the cart and climbed aboard. The conductor's seat was at the front, with an excellent view. The conductor was a man in his thirties wearing the gray two-pocket work clothes standard for anyone "on the public payroll," with a cloth tag reading "Highway Passenger Transport" sewn on his chest.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Have one, young fellow?"

"I don't smoke." Fu Fu waved it off; he wasn't used to the acrid taste. "Go ahead, though."

The conductor lit one for himself. The driver cracked the whip, and the ox-cart lurched into motion. Everyone pitched forward; Fu Fu steadied himself and grabbed the handrail.

"Home on leave?"

"That's right. We just came back from the front."

"Coming back safe and sound is what matters." The conductor exhaled a plume of smoke. "Was the fighting fierce?"

"Mostly patrols and bandit suppression. A lot of marching and climbing. We barely clashed with the government troops—they were scared stiff by our artillery."

The conductor studied his uniform. "What does the 'I' on your collar tab mean?"

"First Infantry Battalion."

"Ah. In our day we were still called the Security Regiment."

"When I enlisted, it was still the Security Regiment too. The conscription levy came to our village, and I was the one who went." Fu Fu paused. "You served, brother?"

"I did." The conductor nodded. "Got wounded and was discharged." He shifted his leg. "Lost a foot during the bandit suppression in the county."

Fu Fu looked down and saw a wooden leg poking from beneath the man's trouser cuff. Then he noticed the red first-class combat-wound ribbon sewn onto the sleeve—and felt a surge of respect.

"So you're one of the veterans," Fu Fu said. "Why don't you wear your medal?" Fu Fu himself had fought in the Lingao bandit-suppression campaign and had earned a Lingao Pacification Commemorative Medal.

"That trinket won't replace my leg." The conductor blew out another cloud of smoke. "But wiping out those bandits brought the whole county some peace. Might as well call it karma. I've made my peace with it."

(End of Chapter)