Since I was young, I often heard my father talk about the past of the military camp, and he invisibly became my guide towards the military. I think when I joined the army, my father must have been proud and pleased. My father has an old suitcase that holds his stories. In one of the photo albums, there are several military uniform photos of my father. There is a photo taken of my father standing under a osmanthus tree in the camp wearing a neat military uniform, with a smile on his face. In a corner of the album, there happens to be a dried osmanthus flower. Father said he picked this before leaving the army. Over the years, every time he saw photos and osmanthus flowers, it felt like he had returned to the place that made his blood boil. In that album, there is also a yellowed photo of my father kneeling on one knee on a red soil slope in southern Yunnan, holding a pickaxe tightly in his hand - this is a scene of him digging cable trenches in the 1990s. Father said that due to the complex terrain, rubber shoes often get stuck in mud, and if they encounter hard soil, even a pickaxe cannot move them. He worked tirelessly and suffered a waist injury. Occasionally, when he mentioned it, he just smiled it off. In my father's old suitcase, there was once a notebook that was treasured, with the words' Not afraid of being slow, but afraid of standing 'written on the front page. My father told me that these were the words given to him by the old class monitor, which means' It doesn't matter if you slow down, but you must never stop '. Years later, when I joined the army, he solemnly gave me his notebook. He said that his notebook recorded his insights and experiences during his military service. The moment he handed over his notebook to me with both hands, it seemed to quietly convey his inner resilience to me. In the second year of his father's enlistment, a sudden wildfire broke out at his base. After receiving the order, the troops immediately rushed to the scene for rescue. Due to time constraints, my father and comrades did not hesitate to pick up the wet branches and charge towards the front line. Wildfires are raging, thick smoke is billowing, where is the way? Person No. 100 managed to carve out a firebreak on a steep slope. Blood blisters appeared on the palms, and the soles of the shoes were charred and curled, but no one flinched or cried out in pain. It was not until the next morning that the fire was effectively controlled. My father was commended for his outstanding performance in firefighting. Once, during a heart to heart conversation with me, he rubbed the golden letters on the commendation certificate and exclaimed with emotion, "This certificate is my glory." On the day of my promotion exam, the temperature outside the residence was very high. At first, I felt dizzy and disoriented while running. In a daze, my father's voice seemed to surface in my ear: 'With a pickaxe and a hammer, even a mountain can be split open.' That voice gave me strength. I gritted my teeth, ran hard, and ultimately achieved good results. In the old suitcase, my father's military uniform was quietly placed. I know that some spirits will never fade. The principles that my father taught me with every word and action, such as' a straight back when injured, '' perseverance when the soles of my shoes burn, 'and' strong handwriting in my notebook, 'have long been ingrained in my bones, supporting me to overcome difficulties and obstacles and move forward courageously. This year on vacation, I specially brought a brand new military uniform home and solemnly saluted my father in it. Father's lips trembled as he repeatedly said 'good'. He walked up to me and gently touched my shoulder patch, as if seeing the handsome and handsome self in military uniform many years ago. When I returned to the train, I received a WeChat message from my father on the train: "Learn your skills well, the road is far away, work hard, Dad believes in you!" These few words made my eyes warm. Looking out the window at the fleeting scenery, I seem to smell the faint fragrance of the osmanthus flower in the photo album again - it is the scent of youth, the fragrance of inheritance, and even the attachment of our father and son generations of soldiers to the hot land of the military camp. (New Society)