I joined up because the mill closed. That is the truth of it. Not patriotism. Not glory. The mill closed, my wife had three children who needed feeding, and the recruiter in the town square said: sign here, three pence a day, warm boots.
I signed. I got cold boots. The Colonel—his name was Song, I think, though nobody called him that—told us we were going north to break the enemy's line at Sector 7. He spoke about duty and king and country and the little man back home who needed us to do our bit. I nodded. I had learned by then that nodding was easier than asking questions. The Sergeant—Zhang, they said—was the best shot in the...
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