Toy Soldiers
“Back to your ranks, soldiers!” the General spits, his awards jingle with every step.
“YesSIR!” his troops reply.
I organize my toy soldiers by weapon type. Four crouch on one knee, their identical faces hide behind long machine guns that are supposed to be AK-47s, but my father insists they’re all wrong.
“Plastic doesn’t do justice,” he says.
Five other figurines stand one foot in front of the other poised to kill with bayonets raised over a shoulder. Their faces are the same, snarled and squinty.
I ready them for battle: two rows of four and one -- the General -- out in front to lead the imminent attack.
The General is marked by battle scars from when he narrowly escaped the Nanjing Massacre, though really it was the hot radiator that melted part of his face and helmet. The General has survived all of China's battles, even ones where he got shot. He brings honor to his family.
A shadow falls over the formation.
Chuckle, chuckle. “At it again, son?”
I have been raised to respect my elders, but this old man is a stranger, someone we met two days ago when we first boarded this cross-country train.
Sullen silence.
My father clears his throat, a warning sign.
“Y’sir,” I mumble, scrutinizing the stains on the carpet. The old man’s fat feet swell out of too-small fabric shoes.
I feel my father fix me with that stern gaze, the one that means whatever I’m doing is wrong. I look up to face the red-faced stranger.
“Yessir,” I say, sarcastically imitating a soldier’s response. My father cocks his head, catching me mid-mockery. But the fat stranger doesn’t get it. He secures my chin between a balmy thumb and forefinger. “You’ll make a fine soldier yourself one day,” he says, his breath like mustard gas.
He releases me from his maniacal grasp and sits across the aisle on the bottom bunk of our small train compartment to exchange more military stories with my father. Mama and my little brother have to get up to make space for the stranger’s sturdy girth. The bunk squeaks when he sits.
Pudgy hands flag down a vendor cart to order two Blue Lion beers -- one for the stranger, one for my father. Mama doesn’t approve. The cans crack open with a hiss.
My father and this fat stranger have become fast friends, as my father does with every man he recognizes as fellow military. Their immaculate flattops give them away. My father maintains his haircut weekly, even though he was dismissed after a training exercise when friendly fire shot him in the hip. He’s almost handicapped now.
Or that’s what mama says. I’m forbidden from asking why he can’t walk well and why he doesn’t hold a job. Mama says it’s too painful. I wonder if that’s why he limps worse on days when the government comes to ask him questions. It must be too painful.
I roll my eyes, turning my attention to mama.
“Are we there yet, mama?” I ask.
“Soon,” she says. She is nervously spotting my little brother as he climbs the ladder that leads to the top bunks -- there are three thin bunk beds on each side of every compartment. One hand hovers behind my little brother’s back as the other produces from her pocket a snack pack of dried jackfruit, my absolute favorite.
I use my teeth to tear open the packet greedily, and retreat to my window-side seat.
“Myyyyyyyyyyy!” My little brother doesn’t have words yet, but I know that this particular high-pitched whine means he’s caught sight of my snack pack. He lunges off the ladder, both arms erect and eyes only for my food. Mama catches him mid-air with a sharp inhale and sets him down with a troubled sigh.
“Share,” she says. She turns and leaves the train car to go to the W.C. She goes there often, I think just to get away.
I empty what’s left of the dried, yellow sweets in my hand and hold them out. My little brother smacks his slobbering lips, teeters on chunky toddler’s legs, and reaches with sweaty fingers. But before he grasps goodness, I toss the whole bunch back into my mouth.
I laugh through a yellow grin.
My little brother is about to throw a tantrum. I know I’ll be in trouble, so I transform my mischievous expression to imitate my father’s meanest stare.
It works.
Tears turn to nothing more than an angry pout. Triumphant, I chew the brittle dried fuit with open-mouthed smacks to declare out loud my enjoyment of the sweet treats -- and to bother my little brother.
Suddenly -- sniper fast -- a pudgy fist wraps around the General. My little brother winds back and lets loose in a fitful fury that sends the figurine flying over my head.
Ting, clack.
I watch with horror as the General bounces off the train frame -- ting --then the open windowpane -- clack -- and then out the window, disappearing into a landscape of whizzing rice paddies.
A scream. I don’t know where it comes from. Hot anger blurs my vision.
It wasn’t until the quiet happened that my brain refocused. My father stands tall over me, the print of his four fingers swell in red across my temple. He says nothing -- he rarely does -- but his eyes smolder with rage, so much so that one eyelid twitches. I know I’m in big trouble, but the only thing I can think of is that I’ve never seen my father’s eyes do that before.
As if his seething gaze wasn’t enough, all eyes from all the train’s passengers stare. The quiet stills then shifts to whispers.
“Did you see that? He just hit that little boy.”
I am not a little boy. I am a future soldier, a future General.
Whisper, whisper, whisper.
I turn away from the eyes, the whispers. And there, at the end of the car, stands mama. Our eyes meet. Sometimes, like now, her expression looks stuck, just like the faces of my toy soldiers. She looks away, returns to the W.C., and closes the door.
That’s when the stinging starts.
I blink furiously. A sobbing heave hits me unexpectedly.
My father’s fingers poke hard into the middle of my back. I look up, catching his still, stern reflection in the window.
“Soldiers don’t cry,” is all he says.
..........................
Story Inspiration: The people-watching on China's cross-country trains.
Real-Life Review: China's trains transport much of the country's 1.3 billion people, though fortunately not all at the same time. Still, the trains are crowded. Prepare for cozy quarters and opportune people watching. For more information of train classes and bookings, see Yawn, an earlier post.
Blue Lion beer is a pale lager brewed by Guangdong Blue Ribbon Group. It's best feature is its four quai price tag.
“YesSIR!” his troops reply.
I organize my toy soldiers by weapon type. Four crouch on one knee, their identical faces hide behind long machine guns that are supposed to be AK-47s, but my father insists they’re all wrong.
“Plastic doesn’t do justice,” he says.
Five other figurines stand one foot in front of the other poised to kill with bayonets raised over a shoulder. Their faces are the same, snarled and squinty.
I ready them for battle: two rows of four and one -- the General -- out in front to lead the imminent attack.
The General is marked by battle scars from when he narrowly escaped the Nanjing Massacre, though really it was the hot radiator that melted part of his face and helmet. The General has survived all of China's battles, even ones where he got shot. He brings honor to his family.
A shadow falls over the formation.
Chuckle, chuckle. “At it again, son?”
I have been raised to respect my elders, but this old man is a stranger, someone we met two days ago when we first boarded this cross-country train.
Sullen silence.
My father clears his throat, a warning sign.
“Y’sir,” I mumble, scrutinizing the stains on the carpet. The old man’s fat feet swell out of too-small fabric shoes.
I feel my father fix me with that stern gaze, the one that means whatever I’m doing is wrong. I look up to face the red-faced stranger.
“Yessir,” I say, sarcastically imitating a soldier’s response. My father cocks his head, catching me mid-mockery. But the fat stranger doesn’t get it. He secures my chin between a balmy thumb and forefinger. “You’ll make a fine soldier yourself one day,” he says, his breath like mustard gas.
He releases me from his maniacal grasp and sits across the aisle on the bottom bunk of our small train compartment to exchange more military stories with my father. Mama and my little brother have to get up to make space for the stranger’s sturdy girth. The bunk squeaks when he sits.
Pudgy hands flag down a vendor cart to order two Blue Lion beers -- one for the stranger, one for my father. Mama doesn’t approve. The cans crack open with a hiss.
My father and this fat stranger have become fast friends, as my father does with every man he recognizes as fellow military. Their immaculate flattops give them away. My father maintains his haircut weekly, even though he was dismissed after a training exercise when friendly fire shot him in the hip. He’s almost handicapped now.
Or that’s what mama says. I’m forbidden from asking why he can’t walk well and why he doesn’t hold a job. Mama says it’s too painful. I wonder if that’s why he limps worse on days when the government comes to ask him questions. It must be too painful.
I roll my eyes, turning my attention to mama.
“Are we there yet, mama?” I ask.
“Soon,” she says. She is nervously spotting my little brother as he climbs the ladder that leads to the top bunks -- there are three thin bunk beds on each side of every compartment. One hand hovers behind my little brother’s back as the other produces from her pocket a snack pack of dried jackfruit, my absolute favorite.
I use my teeth to tear open the packet greedily, and retreat to my window-side seat.
“Myyyyyyyyyyy!” My little brother doesn’t have words yet, but I know that this particular high-pitched whine means he’s caught sight of my snack pack. He lunges off the ladder, both arms erect and eyes only for my food. Mama catches him mid-air with a sharp inhale and sets him down with a troubled sigh.
“Share,” she says. She turns and leaves the train car to go to the W.C. She goes there often, I think just to get away.
I empty what’s left of the dried, yellow sweets in my hand and hold them out. My little brother smacks his slobbering lips, teeters on chunky toddler’s legs, and reaches with sweaty fingers. But before he grasps goodness, I toss the whole bunch back into my mouth.
I laugh through a yellow grin.
My little brother is about to throw a tantrum. I know I’ll be in trouble, so I transform my mischievous expression to imitate my father’s meanest stare.
It works.
Tears turn to nothing more than an angry pout. Triumphant, I chew the brittle dried fuit with open-mouthed smacks to declare out loud my enjoyment of the sweet treats -- and to bother my little brother.
Suddenly -- sniper fast -- a pudgy fist wraps around the General. My little brother winds back and lets loose in a fitful fury that sends the figurine flying over my head.
Ting, clack.
I watch with horror as the General bounces off the train frame -- ting --then the open windowpane -- clack -- and then out the window, disappearing into a landscape of whizzing rice paddies.
A scream. I don’t know where it comes from. Hot anger blurs my vision.
It wasn’t until the quiet happened that my brain refocused. My father stands tall over me, the print of his four fingers swell in red across my temple. He says nothing -- he rarely does -- but his eyes smolder with rage, so much so that one eyelid twitches. I know I’m in big trouble, but the only thing I can think of is that I’ve never seen my father’s eyes do that before.
As if his seething gaze wasn’t enough, all eyes from all the train’s passengers stare. The quiet stills then shifts to whispers.
“Did you see that? He just hit that little boy.”
I am not a little boy. I am a future soldier, a future General.
Whisper, whisper, whisper.
I turn away from the eyes, the whispers. And there, at the end of the car, stands mama. Our eyes meet. Sometimes, like now, her expression looks stuck, just like the faces of my toy soldiers. She looks away, returns to the W.C., and closes the door.
That’s when the stinging starts.
I blink furiously. A sobbing heave hits me unexpectedly.
My father’s fingers poke hard into the middle of my back. I look up, catching his still, stern reflection in the window.
“Soldiers don’t cry,” is all he says.
..........................
Story Inspiration: The people-watching on China's cross-country trains.
Real-Life Review: China's trains transport much of the country's 1.3 billion people, though fortunately not all at the same time. Still, the trains are crowded. Prepare for cozy quarters and opportune people watching. For more information of train classes and bookings, see Yawn, an earlier post.
Blue Lion beer is a pale lager brewed by Guangdong Blue Ribbon Group. It's best feature is its four quai price tag.