The Japanese withdrew.
The huge, thin, full moon like a piece of paper-cutting, as it rises to the top of the sorghum, the area shrinks and shrinks, and it gradually radiates brilliance.
The plagued sorghum stood silent in the moonlight, and occasionally some sorghum rice fell on the black soil, like the crystal tears of the sorghum.
The smell of fishy sweetness in the air is strong and dense, and human blood has soaked the black ground in the south of our village.
The fire in the village pulsed like a fox's tail, and from time to time there was the crackling sound of burning wood. The burnt smell diffused from the village and mixed with the bloody smell in the sorghum field to form a suffocating smell.
The old wound on Grandpa's arm was exhausted, the sore face burst, and so much black, gray and foul blood was bleeding.
Grandpa asked his father to help him squeeze the wound.
With his little cold fingers, the father squeezed the blue-purple skin near the wound on his grandfather's arm with fear, and squeezed it, and a string of iris-like bubbles popped out, and there was a pickle-like corruption in the wound.
Grandpa uncovered a piece of yellow paper pressed against the tip of the grave from a tomb in the distance. He asked his father to scrape some alkali-halogen-like white powder from the sorghum stalk and put it on the paper.
Father held a small pile of yellow paper with sorghum flour in his hands and presented it to his grandfather.
Grandpa unscrewed a pistol bullet with his teeth, poured out some gray-green gunpowder, mixed with the white sorghum powder, pinched a pinch, and sprinkled it on the wound. Father asked in a low voice: "Father, don't mix it with black soil. ?"
Grandpa thought for a while, and said, "Miss it."
Father dug up a piece of black soil from the roots of sorghum, rubbed it finely with his hands, and sprinkled it on the yellow paper.
Grandpa mixed the three substances, together with the yellow paper, and patted the wound. Father helped Grandpa tie up the dirty bandage.
The father asked: "Father, is the pain less painful?"
Grandpa moved his arms a few times and said, "It's much better, Douguan, with such a panacea, any serious injury can be cured."
"Father, my mother wouldn't die if she also applied this medicine at that time?" Father asked.
"Yes, I won't die..."
Grandpa said gloomily.
"Father, it's fine if you told me about this prescription. The blood in my mother's wound was gurgling out, and I blocked it with black soil, blocking it for a while, and the blood rushed out again.
If only sorghum white powder and gun medicine were added then..."
Grandpa used the wounded hand to press the bullet into the pistol in the soft whispers of his father;
The Japanese mortar shells blew up clouds of burnt smoke on the village's enclosure.
Father's Browning pistol was pressed under the belly of the Japanese Yanmar.
In the final fight in the afternoon, my father dragged a Japanese carbine that was not much shorter than him, and my grandfather also used the German-made "Zilaid" pistol.
The continuous shooting made this "self-contained", which had already passed its youth, quickly rush to the scrap pile.
My father felt that the barrel of Grandpa's pistol had been stretched in a twist.
Despite the fire in the village, the sorghum field still presents a peaceful night.
A more desolate bright moon shines on the shrunken head of sorghum whose charm is gradually declining.
The father dragged the gun, followed his grandfather, and walked around the slaughterhouse. The blood-stained black soil was like mastic, sinking their feet.
Human corpses are mixed with the remains of sorghum.
A puff of blood gleamed under the moon.
The vague and squalid face was criss-crossed, sweeping his father's last teenage years.
There seemed to be painful groans in the sorghum trees, and there seemed to be living creatures squirming in the pile of corpses. My father wanted to call Grandpa to see these still-negative folks.
He raised his face and saw his grandfather's green rusty bronze face with no human expression, and pressed his words into his throat.
At very critical moments, my father is always more awake than his grandfather, and his thoughts may always float on the surface of the phenomenon, not deep enough, so it is convenient for guerrillas!
Grandpa's thoughts were numbly stagnating at a point at the time. This point might be a crooked face, or a broken gun, or a flying pointed bullet.
He turned a blind eye to other scenes, and he did not hear other sounds.
This problem or characteristic of Grandpa developed more serious after more than ten years.
After returning from the barren mountains of Hokkaido, Japan, his eyes were unfathomable, staring at something as if he was about to scorch something.
My father never reached the depth of this philosophical thinking.
In 1957, he went through all kinds of hardships, and when he ran out of the hole his mother dug, his eyes were still lively, confused, and rapidly changing like he was a teenager.
He has never understood the relationship between man and politics, man and society, and man and war in his entire life. Although he is spinning fast on the great wheel of war, the light of his human nature is always trying to break through the cold iron armor.
But in fact, even if his human nature can radiate a bright light at a certain moment, this light is cold, curved, and mixed with some profound animal factors.
Later, when my grandfather and father circled the massacre for more than a dozen circles, my father wept and said, "Father... I can't walk..."
Grandpa woke up from the mechanical movement. He led his father back dozens of steps and sat on the hard and dry black soil that was not soaked in human blood.
The fire in the village aggravated the loneliness and coldness in the sorghum field;
The faint golden flames trembled in the silvery moonlight.
Grandpa sat for a while and fell backward like a half-wall.
The father put his head on his grandfather's belly and fell asleep dimly.
He felt his grandfather's hot big hand gently touching his head, and his father remembered the scene of breastfeeding in his grandma's arms more than ten years ago.
At that time, he was four years old, and he was disgusted with the yellowish breasts that grandma forced into his mouth.
He had sour and hard nipples, and a wave of hatred surged in his heart.
He looked at grandma's psychedelic face with fierce eyes like a small beast, and took a bite.
He felt his grandma's breasts shrank sharply, and grandma's body rose.
A hint of sweet liquid warmed his mouth.
Grandma slapped him hard on the ass and pushed him out.
He fell down, sat up, and watched the brilliant red blood pearls falling droplets on the cantaloupe-like breast of his grandma. There were no tears in his eyes, and he let out a few dry howls.
Grandma convulsed in pain, tears overflowing.
He heard his grandma call him a wolf cub, the same beast as the wolf father.
My father later learned that when he was four years old, his grandfather fell in love with his grandmother at the same time he fell in love with the little girl hired by his grandmother. He had grown into a black and shiny big girl lover.
When the father bit his grandma, the grandpa bought a row of houses in a neighboring village because he was tired of grandma's jealousy, and took Love'er to live.
It is said that my mistress is not a fuel-efficient lamp, and my grandmother is afraid of her five points—this is something that must be fully explained in the future—the mistress gave me a little aunt.
In 1938, the Japanese soldiers picked up my sister-in-law with a bayonet, and a group of Japanese soldiers gang-raped the mistress—this is something that must be fully clarified in the future.
Both grandpa and father were extremely tired. Grandpa felt the gunshot wound on his arm bouncing around and his whole arm was hot.
Both grandpa and father felt their feet full of cloth shoes. They imagined the happiness of letting their festered feet hang in the moonlight, but they both had no strength to get up and take off their shoes.
They lay down, groggy as if they were asleep.
Father rolled over, resting his head on his hard stomach, facing the starry sky, a ray of moonlight shining in his eyes.
There were waves of dumb whispers from the Moshui River, and snake-like black clouds appeared in the Tianhe River, as if they were winding and moving, but also as if they were not moving.
Father remembers that Uncle Luohan said that the sky is boundless and the autumn rains.
My father had only seen the real autumn water once, when the sorghum was about to be harvested, the ink river surged, the dam broke, and the flood flooded the fields and villages.
In the flood waters, the sorghum stretched its head hard, and the rats and snakes entangled around the sorghum ears.
My father followed Uncle Luohan on the temporarily elevated soil enclosure, and looked at the yellow water that seemed to be pouring from the sky, feeling anxious.
As the autumn water lasted for a long time, people in the village tied up their rafts and rowed them into the sorghum field, using a sickle to cut the sorghum ears full of green sprouts.
Bundles of wet, dark red, and emerald green sorghum ears pressed the raft to the bottom at any time.
The black, thin, barefooted and barebacked man wearing a torn hat, standing on the raft with a cross-split, using a long wooden pole to support it from left to right, and the raft slowly approached the dirt enclosure.
The streets of the village were also knee-deep in water, mules, horses, cattle and sheep were all soaked in the water, and the thin excrement of livestock floated on the water.
If the autumn sun shines, gold and iron shimmer on the surface of the water, and the sorghums, whose heads have not been cut in the distance, protrude a layer of golden red on the surface of the water.
Large groups of wild ducks flew on the head of the sorghum, and the many wings fanned the cool wind, blowing a small wrinkle on the water between the sorghum.
Father saw that between the sorghum slabs, there was a bright and broad big water flowing slowly, forming a clear boundary with the flooding yellow water around. Father knew that it was the ink river.
The men on the raft panted, interrogating each other, and slowly moved closer to the dirt and grandfather.
On a young farmer's raft, lay a large silver-bellied green-ridged grass carp, and a flexible fine sorghum straw pierced the gill of the grass carp.
The young farmer lifted the grass carp to show off to the people on the fence.
The grass carp is half a person tall, with blood on its cheeks and a round mouth, looking at my father sadly with dull eyes...
My father thought about how the big fish was bought back by Uncle Luohan, and how grandma cut the fish's belly and scales, and burned it into a big pot of fish soup. The delicious memories of the fish soup aroused his appetite.
Father sat up and said, "Father, aren't you hungry?
Dad, I'm hungry, you can get me something to eat, I'm going to starve to death..."
Grandpa sat up, fumbled around his waist, and found out three clips and six bullets.
Grandpa found the pistol from his side, pulled the bolt, pressed in a bullet, loosened the bullet and loaded it, hooked the machine, with a snap, and a bullet flew out of the chamber.
Grandpa said: "Guan Dou, let's... go to your mother..."
The father was surprised and said sharply: "No, father, my mother is dead, we are still alive, I am hungry, you take me to find something to eat."
The father dragged grandpa up.
Grandpa said to himself: "Where are we going?"
Where to go? "
Father took the hand of his grandfather, in the sorghum tree, one foot high and the other low, slanted and slanted, as if walking towards the higher and more cold moon.
In the pile of corpses, a roar of a beast sounded.
Grandpa and father immediately turned around and saw dozens of pairs of wildfire-like green eyes and steel-blue shadows rolling over and over.
Grandpa took out the gun and flicked it at the two green eyes. A flame flew away, and the two green eyes went out, and a dying dog barking came from the sorghum tree.
Grandpa fired seven shots in a row, and a group of injured dogs rolled around among sorghum bushes and piles of corpses.
Grandpa shot all the bullets at the dog group, and the uninjured dog fled a few arrows away, snarling angrily at grandpa and father.
The last few bullets fired by Grandpa's Jilaid pistol fell to the ground after flying thirty steps away.
The father saw the warhead flying somersaults in the moonlight, so slowly he could reach out and grab it.
The gunshots also lost the crisp youthful throat, like an old man coughing and spitting.
Grandpa raised his gun and looked at it for a moment, with a sad expression on his face.
"Father, no bullets?" Father asked.
The five hundred bullets that grandfather and father carried back from the county town with the belly of a kid had been fired in ten hours.
Just as people are aging suddenly in one day, guns are also aging suddenly in one day.
Grandpa felt painfully that this gun was increasingly against his will, and it was time to say goodbye to it.
Grandpa stretched out his arms, carefully watching the dim light reflected by the moonlight on the gun surface, then let go, and the box gun fell heavily.
The green-eyed dogs gathered towards the corpse again, still fearful at first, sparks of terror jumping in their green eyes.
Soon, the green eyes disappeared, and the blue dog fur was shining in the moonlight, and both grandpa and father heard the rattle of the dog's mouth and the tearing of the corpse.
"Father, let's go to the village." Father said.
Grandpa hesitated a bit, and his father gave him a hand, and he followed his father.
The fires in the village are mostly extinguished. In the ruins of the broken walls, the dark red embers are emitting intense heat, the hot wind circulates in the street, the turbid air is pressing, and the white smoke and black smoke are intertwined into clusters, in the burnt and withered trees Churning between the tips.
The wood exploded like a bean during the carbonization process, and the roof of the house that had lost its support collapsed, throwing up dust and ashes into the sky.
The corpses are messed up on the earth and on the streets.
The history of our village has turned a new page.
It was originally a savage land, with brambles, reeds and grasses, a paradise for foxes and hares. Later, there were several shepherds' huts. Later, murderers, down-and-out alcoholics, desperate gamblers...
They built houses, reclaimed wasteland, created a paradise for people, and foxes and hares migrated to other places, and they screamed in unison when they parted.
Now it is in ruins, created by man, and destroyed by man.
The true present is a paradise of sorrows and joys built on the ruins.
When the dark hunger enveloped the land of Shandong in 1960, although I was only four years old, I vaguely felt that Dongbei Township in Gaomi had never been in ruins. There were broken bricks in the hearts of people in Dongbei Township, Gaomi. Broken tiles have never been cleaned up, and it is impossible to clean up.
That night, after all the houses were extinguished, the dozens of houses in my house were still burning.
When my house burned, some emerald green flames and an intoxicating smell of wine were emitted, and the alcohol that had been retained for many years rose up in the fire.
The blue roof tiles were bent and deformed in the fire, appearing dark red, and flew out of the fire swiftly and like shrapnel.
The fire illuminates Grandpa's gray hair, and Grandpa's black hair has turned three-quarters white in just seven days.
The roof of my house collapsed with a rumble, the flame shrank for a moment, and then went crazy higher.
Both father and grandpa were choked with chest tightness by the loud noise.
These dozens of houses that first sheltered the father and son of the single family to get rich, then sheltered the grandfather to set fire to murder, and sheltered the granny, grandfather, father, Lohan, and the rest of the guys, fulfilling its so-called "historical mission."
I hate this shelter, because it shelters kindness and numb true emotions, but also shelters ugliness and sin.
Father, in 1957, when you hid in the cave in the room in my house, every day and night, in the eternal darkness, you reminisce about the years and months of the running water. You thought of our house at least 360 times. The roofs of dozens of houses collapsed in the fire.
You think of your father, what my grandpa thought of at that moment, my fantasies closely follow your fantasies, and your fantasies closely follow your grandpa's thinking.
Grandpa saw the collapse of this house, just like when he fell in love with Lian'er girl, he angrily abandoned my grandma to live in another village, but then I heard that grandma left the house with the "black eyes", the leader of the "Teppan Club". Same, I can’t tell whether it is hate or love, or pain or anger.
Grandpa later returned to grandma's embrace, and his feelings for grandma were so muddled that it was difficult to distinguish the color and taste.
Our emotional guerrilla warfare first smashed our own heart and finally smashed our opponent.
Only when his grandmother smiled at his grandfather with a dead face in the sorghum field, did he realize how harsh life was to punish him.
He cherishes my father like a magpie cherishes the last egg in the nest, but, it is a little late, and the more cruel ending arranged for him by fate is already at the intersection ahead, smiling confidently at him.
"Father, our home is gone..." Father said.
Grandpa touched his father's head, looked at the dilapidated home, and holding his father's hand, he staggered aimlessly on the street where the flames were getting weaker and the moonlight was getting stronger.
At the head of the village, an old and simple voice asked: "Is it a mistress?
Why didn't you bring the bullock cart here? "
Grandpa and father heard the voices, feeling very kind, forgetting to be tired, and hurried over.
An old man with a bowed waist came up to meet them and looked at him with his eyes almost on his grandfather's face.
Grandpa was dissatisfied with the old man's two alert eyes, and the copper stench from the old man's mouth disgusted him.
"Not my third son."
The old man shook his head regretfully and sat back.
There are a lot of sundries under his butt, including boxes, cabinets, dining tables, farming tools, animal sets, broken cotton wool, iron pots, crock pots...
The old man sits on a hill-like cargo, guarding his prey like a wolf.
On the willow tree behind the old man, two calves, three goats and a little donkey were tied.
Grandpa gritted his teeth and cursed: "Old dog!
Get out of here! "
The old man squatted up from the cargo pile and said kindly: "Hey, brother, don't be jealous, I'm not afraid to snatch life and death out of the fire!"
"You come down, I'll fuck you up!"
Grandpa scolded.
"You are so unreasonable. I didn't recruit you or provoke you. Why do you curse?"
The old man condemned my grandpa with tolerance.
"scold you?
I'm going to kill you!
Laozi fights against Japan and saves the country, and fights hard with the Japanese, you even took advantage of the fire!
Animals, old animals!
Officer Dou, where's your gun? "
"Throw it under Yanmar's belly!" said his father.
Grandpa jumped onto the cargo pile, kicked the old man under the cargo pile.
The old man knelt on the ground and begged: "Master Eighth Road for mercy, Master Eighth Road for mercy..."
Grandpa said: "I'm not eight-way, nor nine-way.
Lao Tzu is a bandit Yu Zhanao! "
"Commander Yu is forgiving, Commander Yu, these things were burned in vain when they were put in the fire...
I was not the only one who came to the village to "smash the sweet potatoes". The valuables were all taken away by the thieves. My old man's legs were slow and he got a little tattered..."
Grandpa picked up a wooden table and smashed it down at the old man's bald forehead.
The old man screamed and hugged his bleeding head, spinning around on the ground.
Grandpa grabbed him by the collar, lifted him up, and said to the painful old face, "The good guy of the ‘fallen melon’!"
Then he gave a violent punch, and the old man made a greasy sound on his face, and fell to the ground with his face up to the sky. Grandpa stepped forward again and kicked the old man's face.
