Chapter 5: Lost Sons of Shandong

The Road Home

Life in exile in a foreign land was harsh.

Every day was a struggle, but they clung to each other, refusing to give in.

Lin Jian and his companions endured hardship, but hope kept them going.

They took turns keeping watch at night, sharing stories of home to keep spirits up.

They were illiterate and didn’t know where they were, only that there was an ocean between them and home.

The maps in their minds were stitched together from rumor and guesswork. The only thing they knew for sure: keep moving east.

If they could find the sea, maybe they could go home?

The idea became their guiding star, foolish but unbreakable.

They thought, as long as they kept moving in one direction, they would eventually reach the end.

Each sunrise brought new hope, even as their bodies weakened.

It was a naive idea, but it was all they had… As long as they could go home, what did it matter to cross mountains and seas?

They joked sometimes, calling themselves the "lost sons of Shandong," but the laughter never lasted long.

After escaping the mine in July, wild grasses and mushrooms provided food. But with autumn came hunger and cold.

Their clothes grew thinner, their bodies gaunter. Nights were spent huddled together for warmth.

After crossing another hill, they found fields of crops planted by local farmers.

The golden rows of corn and potatoes were a temptation they could not resist.

“Let’s sneak some food, or we’ll starve.”

They debated, fear battling with hunger. In the end, survival won out.

They avoided contact with locals, but hunger forced Lin Jian to agree.

He felt guilty, but there was no other way. They crept through the fields at dusk, hands trembling.

They split up, sneaking toward the fields.

The moon was a thin sliver in the sky. Lin Jian’s heart pounded as he moved between the rows.

Suddenly, over twenty townsfolk emerged!

Flashlights flickered, voices shouted. The men scattered, panic driving them apart.

The two sides locked eyes. “Run!”

Lin Jian’s voice cracked as he bolted, heart hammering. The others followed, feet pounding the frozen earth.

At Lin Jian’s shout, the five men ran for their lives.

Branches whipped their faces, but they didn’t stop. Behind them, angry voices faded into the night.

When they looked back, only three remained…

Lin Jian fell to his knees, breath ragged. The pain of loss was sharper than hunger.

Lin Jian sat on the ground, covering his face in grief. They all knew those caught had little chance of survival.

He wept for his friends, for all they had lost, for the families waiting back home.

Life had to go on. The survivors gathered food, pressed on, and carried the memory of the dead as they searched for a way home.

They buried their grief deep, using it as fuel to keep moving.

Lin and the other two moved forward, sticking to the mountain by day, sneaking into villages at night to steal potatoes.

They became shadows, moving only at night, always alert for danger.

Soon, they crossed the forest and saw the endless sea.

The sight took their breath away. The waves crashed endlessly, a barrier and a promise.

Lin braced his hands on his knees, panting. “Is this the sea?” “Is home across the sea?” “How can we cross it?”

They stared at the horizon, hope and despair mingling in their eyes.

The other two were silent; they had no answer.

The wind whipped their faces, carrying the scent of salt and longing.

They settled in a forest near the shore, observing the area. There was a small fishing village nearby.

They watched the fishermen come and go, studying their routines, searching for an opportunity.

Lin snuck over at midnight and found an abandoned boat.

It was battered, half-buried in sand, but it was hope made real.

In the days that followed, they patched it up with planks and tools, planning to cross the sea.

They scavenged nails, rope, anything that might help. Their hands bled, but their spirits soared.

None of them had sailing experience, and they failed again and again. Night after night, they carried the boat to the water, only to be overturned by waves and pushed back to shore.

Each failure was a blow, but they refused to give up. The dream of home was too strong.

“Are we never going home?”

Lin’s voice broke in the darkness. The silence that followed was heavy with despair.

For a moment, they despaired. The sea was too vast, home too far, and they were too tired…

They sat on the sand, shoulders slumped, the boat behind them like a monument to lost hope.

In despair, Lin Jian tried to seek help. They decided to secretly observe the fishermen, hoping to find a kind soul to help them cross the sea.

They watched for days, looking for someone who seemed kind, or lonely, or desperate enough to help.

But this plan led to deeper despair.

The fishermen were wary, the village closed to outsiders. Lin Jian’s heart sank.

After a year in America, they understood some simple English. They approached a lonely old man in his sixties.

They rehearsed their words, practicing in whispers. The old man’s house was at the edge of the village, lights always burning late.

One night, Lin knocked on his door. Using broken English and gestures, they begged him to help them go home.

Lin held out a crumpled photograph of his family, tears shining in his eyes. The old man shook his head, closing the door with a heavy sigh.

But the old man refused.

The rejection stung, but worse was the fear that followed. The village would soon know they were there.

Not only did they fail to get help, but their whereabouts were exposed. Search parties combed the woods.

Dogs barked in the distance, flashlights swept the trees. Lin Jian’s heart hammered as he hid, barely daring to breathe.

The weather turned cold, the mountains bare. The three hid for days, with almost nothing to eat. When the searchers seemed to withdraw, they considered going down for food.

Their stomachs ached, but hunger was nothing compared to the terror of being caught.

But the searchers had only pretended to leave—they were lying in wait.

It was a cruel trick, and Lin cursed himself for falling for it.

As soon as Lin and his companions descended, they were surrounded. His friends fought back to buy time, and only Lin escaped…

He ran blindly, branches slashing his face, until he collapsed, sobbing, alone.

Emaciated, he sat on the ground and wept.

The forest echoed with his grief, but no one came.

From then on, in this foreign land, on this lonely mountain, he was alone.

The silence was overwhelming. Lin Jian spoke to himself, to the wind, to the ghosts of his friends.

Thinking of what his companions would face, and the endless loneliness ahead, Lin Jian thought of suicide for the first time.

He found the rope they’d saved, staring at it for hours, weighing life and death.

Death would be a relief.

He tied the rope to a branch, the world spinning as he stepped off.

He took out the grass rope they had prepared for crossing the sea and hung it from a sturdy branch.

But the rope was rotten. He fell heavily to the ground.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. He lay still, staring up at the sky, snowflakes drifting down.

Lin lay there, unmoving for a long time, staring blankly at the sky.

He watched the clouds move, feeling smaller than ever, but strangely alive.

Only when cold snowflakes fell on his face did he come to his senses.

He shivered, blinking away tears, and slowly sat up.

Perhaps God did not want him to die.

He whispered a prayer, unsure if anyone was listening, but grateful for another chance.

Of more than 800 laborers, more than 200 companions, only five had escaped. Now, he was the only one left. If he could survive until the end of the war, maybe he could go home… Go home, and see the wheat fields for everyone.

He made a vow, right there in the snow: to live, to remember, to hope.