Zhang Yongshou was 14 when he became a soldier. He remembers the arrival of the People’s Liberation Army’s 18th Corps in his impoverished hometown, the blare of revolutionary songs and the sudden sense that a different life might be possible. That early enlistment — recorded in a grainy photograph he keeps to this day — anchored a life that would move from front‑line service to front‑line storytelling.
By the time Zhang reached adulthood he had joined a military cultural troupe and learned, as he put it, that art could arm morale as effectively as a rifle. His wartime service culminated in combat and in theatrical wartime慰问 (front‑line entertainment) during the Korean War, actions that won him two third‑class merits and shaped his sense of duty. The episode in which he shifted from seeking combat to staying with performers to boost soldiers’ spirits marks an early conversion to the idea that culture was itself a weapon in wartime.
In 1956 Zhang’s transition from stage to screen began when Bayi (August First) Film Studio recruited performers for a series of early PLA films. He cut his teeth under directors Liu Peiran and Yan Jizhou, both veteran revolutionaries who prized lived experience and discipline in service of storytelling. Working conditions were austere; celluloid was scarce and big scenes took days to stage, but the constraint hardened a creative discipline that Zhang would carry into a decades‑long acting and directing career.
Zhang appeared in and later directed a string of films — Black Mountain Blocking Battle (originally scripted as The Last Winter), Tracks in the Snowy Forest, Raid, Tunnel Warfare and others — that became fixtures of post‑1949 cinematic memory. He describes learning practical skills for stunts and authenticity — parachute training used for a dramatic vehicle jump, learning sailor drills before throwing a smoke grenade from a speedboat — and says there were no doubles: actors had to be both brave and technically competent.
His declared artistic credo, distilled as “listen truly, see truly, face truly,” reflects a dual commitment: to his identity as a soldier and to a kind of cinematic realism. That pledge maps onto the phrase he cherishes, binghun — the “soul of the soldier” — which for Zhang means conveying the faith, loyalty and people‑centered spirit he saw in comrades and wanted to reproduce on screen.
While the piece is a personal portrait, its significance extends beyond one man’s memory. Zhang’s trajectory exemplifies the central role of PLA cultural workers in creating China's post‑revolutionary national mythology. Films made by or with veterans lend cinematic authority to official narratives of sacrifice, heroism and national unity; when viewers encounter convincing, veteran‑shaped portrayals, the works can recruit, inspire and legitimize military service.
That dynamic matters today. The Chinese Communist Party has, for decades, encouraged “red” culture and, more recently, emphasized the integration of military, political and cultural education as part of broader efforts to bolster regime legitimacy and modernize the armed forces. Veteran figures who fuse lived service with artistic credibility help bridge state messaging and popular sentiment in ways that purely institutional propaganda often cannot.
Zhang’s refusal of commercial offers and his insistence on participating only in public‑interest work underline another point: the performance of authenticity is also a moral stance. He positions himself as a custodian of veterans’ memory rather than as the proprietor of its glow. For domestic audiences this humility strengthens the films’ claim to truth; for international observers it signals how cultural production can be marshalled to sustain internal narratives about the armed forces.
At the end of a near‑three hour conversation, Zhang returned repeatedly to his earliest days under fire and to the single phrase he hangs on his wall: binghun. For him, cinema was never an escape from the soldier’s life but a continuation of the same mission — to honor, to educate and to call forth heroes for a new generation. That continuity helps explain why military films remain both emotionally resonant and politically useful in contemporary China.