I grew up on a prison farm. There were endless sugar cane forests, winding flood control ditches, many clear ponds, and patches of subtropical fruit trees. Of course, there were also black and white photos.

The high wall and electric grid, the dark muzzles of the soldiers' guns on the towers, and the groups of bald men in gray clothes who always have a sour smell on their bodies.

The most indispensable thing in a place like this is stories. Every time we get together with our childhood friends, what we talk about the most are the supernatural legends related to that farm that can send shivers down your spine.

You may not think that some ghost stories are even piled up in written form in a mottled green iron cabinet in the prison department of the farm. These documents are all from the transcripts of the prison guards’ interviews. Of course, they are attached to the transcripts.

Some of the instructions often read, "This prisoner has experienced hallucinations many times, and it is recommended that he be sent to a local hospital for psychiatric examination" or "This prisoner uses absurd excuses to resist reform and should be dealt with seriously" and so on.

When I was in junior high school, my favorite thing to do when I was at home during the holidays was to meet up with a few friends and go to the field office for a walk. When I met uncles and aunts I knew well, I would shyly ask them to take turns playing with us, which was still very expensive at that time.

Computer. When waiting in line to play on the computer, I like to look through some books and materials in the office, so I can come into contact with the aforementioned things that are not classified at all.

Of course, like other social circles, the biggest gathering place for ghost stories in the farm family compound is the place where the Dragon Gate Array is set up. In our place, this kind of place is the chess and card room, which is a paradise for retired veteran cadres and little kids like us. I

When I was very young, I liked to lie down on the white tile floor with my friends and play with mahjong tiles as building blocks, while listening to the grandparents taking turns telling ghost stories. Generally, they would categorically claim that those stories were their own.

Experience or the prisoner himself reported to them.

I didn’t believe all the ghost stories they told. After reading the instructions on the interrogation records kept by the Prison Affairs Department, I knew that the prisoners who claimed to have seen ghosts and reported to the guards were all frustrated by the boring prison life.

They have schizophrenia and hallucinations, or they make it up to attract the attention of their supervisors and resist labor.

The "personal experience" mentioned by the grandparents can be better explained. Retirement life is really boring. If they don't make up some ghost stories and promote them like storytellers, where will they find us, a group of young listeners with faces of admiration and surprise?

Unexpectedly, when I was in my senior year of high school, something happened that made me realize that some stories are really more than just stories.

After I became a lawyer, my former "prison life" made me very careful in doing things and strictly abide by the legal bottom line. Because I really don't want to go back there with a new identity. At the same time, many of my friends inherited my father's career and took the civil service examination.

I became a prison guard and worked in various prisons directly under the Department of Justice. I didn't want to have to shout "Hello, officer!" when I see them every day.

But the biggest impact on my career as a lawyer was the series of events I encountered when I was in my senior year of high school.

This matter has to start with a story that our farm old man likes to tell.

At the end of 1949, all of Guangxi was liberated.

A team was walking on a winding mountain road with karst landforms.

The team was led by a middle-aged, short and fat PLA cadre wearing a khaki military uniform. At this time, he was staring at the back of a young soldier who was serving as a scout about 200 meters ahead, while whispering to the people behind him to hurry up and follow.

superior.

Behind him was a stocky soldier with a Thompson gun on his back and protruding cheekbones. The soldier was holding a brown hemp rope in his left hand. Looking back along the hemp rope, he saw about thirty people wearing coarse cloth casual clothes.

Bald men were wearing handcuffs. The hemp rope was passed through the inside of these men's left arms one by one.

At the end of the "human string" made of hemp rope is a thin soldier who is also carrying a Thompson. The end of the hemp rope is wrapped around his armed belt, allowing him to free his hands and occasionally push the men in front of him.

Urging him to speed up his pace.

There are eight other soldiers carrying brand-new M1 short guns, arranged on both sides of the team, carefully observing the escorted people and surrounding movements while marching.

At the end of the team, there is a tall, thin, black-faced soldier with a Browning light machine gun on his shoulder. From the receiver of the machine gun, it can be seen that the bullet is loaded, and the black muzzle of the gun is shaking left and right, as if it is ready to spit out the fire of hell at any time.

Those who dare to make mistakes will be eliminated.

This group of People's Liberation Army soldiers, who were well-equipped for that era, were about to change their identities and become the first generation of prison police in New China.

Their current task is to escort more than 30 bandits and local gangster leaders captured in the Sino-Vietnam border area in Pingxiang to a place in Guangxi, where a labor camp will be established.

After walking for a whole day, the team finally arrived at a simple dock on the Zuo River as night fell, where a dark red iron barge was waiting for them.

After pulling the hemp rope out of the "human string", the soldiers shouted and rushed the prisoners onto the ship and ordered them to sit in four rows on the ground in the cabin.

Two soldiers carried out a large basket of cooked sweet potatoes that the boatman had prepared and distributed them to the prisoners and officers and soldiers. Another soldier took a bucket of cold boiled water and a gourd made of gourd to feed the prisoners one by one.

When everyone had eaten and the barge was preparing to set sail, the PLA leader named Li Jinhui suddenly felt something was wrong. He always felt that something was secretly watching him somewhere on the shore.

Li Jinhui reached out and patted his cheek, then turned around to inspect the situation in the cabin. As if by mistake, he walked up to a prisoner who was slightly fairer than the others and ordered the prisoner to lift his hands between his legs.

The prisoner hesitated for a moment and had no choice but to comply.

As soon as Li Jinhui saw the opponent's hands, he immediately pulled out a black 1911 pistol from his waist, loaded it with a click, put it against the opponent's head and shouted: "Wei Bi is here! Don't move, or I'll kill you!"

For the prisoner named Wei Bizai, the ring on the left side of the handcuffs was obviously loosened a lot at this time. It was visually inspected that his left hand could be pulled out of the ring at any time. It seemed that this kid was planning to jump into the river and escape.

The stocky soldier with protruding cheekbones who was carrying Thompson on his back was named Lin Guodong. He was Li Jinhui's clerk when he was the battalion commander. Seeing this, he quickly took out a handful of brown thin hemp rope from his bag and, together with Li Jinhui, pulled Wei Bi.

His handcuffs were re-locked, and he was tied up and dragged to the middle of the cabin.

Seeing that what had happened, Wei Bi shook her head helplessly and smiled bitterly, obediently enjoying the one-on-one supervision of a PLA soldier.

At the same time, Li Jinhui ordered Lin Guodong to take two soldiers to inspect the handcuffs of other prisoners one by one.

While Lin Guodong was patrolling, he kept looking back at Wei Bi, mostly focusing on the red rope around his neck.

During the tug just now, Lin Guodong could clearly see from Wei Bizai's collar that the red rope was hanging an inch-diameter, bright green emerald medallion, with a circle of brilliant yellow gold inlaid on the outside. It was worth a glance.
Chapter completed!