1

    During my school days, I recall seeing many pictures in the school library showing young recruits who had only just had the “privilege and honor” to join the army. Among them, the photographs depicting the Kaosha Aboriginal Militia left the deepest impression on me. In my mind, the confusion and forlornness written in the young volunteers’ faces, together with the monotony of black-and-white photography, gave those images of my compatriots an enigmatic and unreal quality.
    When it was my turn to be drafted into military service, taking memento pictures of new conscripts ornamented with colored ribbons had apparently gone out of fashion; my family and fellow tribesmen didn’t even know for sure on what day I’d have to enter the army.
    I remember it was the last day of the local sports festival, and the township office had hired me to serve as a referee. Towards dusk, when the remaining events on the program were about to be concluded and my duties almost over, I was beginning to feel very relaxed. That was when a stranger walked up to me. “Wang So-and-so?” he asked in a detached voice as nonchalant as an autumn breeze. “The only bus down the mountain today has already left, so we’ll now ride to Liukui on the motorcycle and spend the night there. Tomorrow you’ll take the bus to Nantzu station, and there the special train for new conscripts will be waiting for you.” Only later did I find out that this stranger was with the conscription department of the local township office, and in charge of dealing with fresh conscripts. I wanted to say good-bye to my friends and family, and hoped that I might be allowed to go straight to Nantzu station early the next morning, but he wouldn’t have any of it. “You’re not telling me that you don’t want to do your army service, are you? This is a serious matter.” Oddly enough, a look of alarm or apprehension appeared on the stranger’s face, as if he had just caught sight of a huge, slime-covered cockroach. “Serving in the army is the duty of every citizen,” I gave him the standard answer expected in school examinations, shrugging my shoulders. “Well, get ready then. I’m going to fetch my motorcycle. . . . Ah, by the way, don’t bring too much stuff, all you’ll need will be provided by the army. And it’s all free.” He broke into a relaxed laugh as if the promise that everything would be free somehow made him feel very proud.

2

    After completion of the basic training, lots were drawn to decide which units the new soldiers would be assigned to. With a stony expression on his face, our training corporal declared, “a good lot means that you’ll be able to see your hometown in the distance from your sentry post. A bad lot means that the enemy will get a good clear view of your pretty faces. So, you better start praying.” It turned out that there seemed to be a lot of bad lots, and that they seemed to have a particular affinity for me. Of all units, I was ordered to join the troops that had only just been deployed to guard the offshore island of Kinmen. This not only meant that for the two years of my military service, I wouldn’t get any home leave, but also that my pretty aboriginal face would be directly in the enemy’s line of vision.
    In the sixties and seventies, a tense atmosphere of military confrontation was still prevalent in the Taiwan Strait. “Officers and men in the war zone must . . . on the battlefield we should . . .” such were the phrases and exhortations constantly on the lips of our commanding officers. Add to this the mutual artillery bombardment, with the enemy “firing only on odd, never on even days” and our side “firing only on even, never on odd days,” and it’s easily seen how we believed that our officers’ strict demands and the harsh training served just one single purpose: to save our little lives. We didn’t have the slightest suspicion or complaint in our hearts, only a staunch determination to follow orders. Every time the enemy was preparing to launch another barrage, we would rush into the air-raid shelter with nimble and noiseless efficiency.
    Whether it was the lethargy that comes with habit, or because after a while everybody realized that the enemy was only firing blank ammunition and propaganda shells, the fact is that we rookies quickly adopted the nonchalant attitude of experienced campaigners, treating the regular bombardments as something that didn’t really affect or bother us at all. This aloof attitude was something we shared with the locals, only that they were in fact bold enough to run into the open fields the very moment the fire stopped, eagerly searching for the shell splinters that could be made into Kinmen kitchen knives, a commodity that always fetched a very good price. Later, when I left the army, I bought four or five of those famed Kinmen knives as presents for my friends and family. They were all full of praise for the sharpness and durability of those blades, and very grateful for my gift.
    About half a year after I had joined the army, both sides suddenly and with perfect coordination ceased their bombardment on the same day of the same month of the same year. It was as if both sides had signed a treaty to that effect. After that, our rigid routine slackened somewhat, and if a soldier would inadvertently raise his head and look at the sky, it was only because a flock of migratory birds coming from the north had caught his attention. The locals would no longer run out under cover of the night to pick up the shell fragments scattered everywhere. Every night we would sleep the sleep of the righteous, and wake up refreshed and in good spirits. We’d even stand at the corners of the streets and criticize the enemy for ceasing fire.

3

    “At the order of the Kinmen Defense Headquarters,....