The town committee was located on the same road where Luo Cheng had bought breakfast earlier that morning. Seeing it then had given him the idea to visit and inquire about job placements today. While Luo Cheng didn’t share the same urgency for finding work as the people of this era, in his brief two days here, he had begun to grasp its significance. Securing a job here was entirely different from simply starting a career in the modern world.

For one, having a job meant access to rationed food. His military discharge stipend, while substantial, couldn’t buy food without ration tickets. Resorting to the black market (“pigeon markets”) would drain his funds quickly.

Though there were no clocks at home, Luo Cheng wasn’t worried about the town committee being closed. Weekends weren’t yet a standard practice in this era; most workers were given two flexible rest days, pre-arranged and reported in advance. Moreover, many offices didn’t have fixed lunch breaks.

In factories, meal breaks were brief—rarely exceeding an hour. At offices like the grain depot, there was always someone on duty throughout the day. The town committee followed a similar pattern.

The town committee was housed in a modest two-story building—one of the better structures in the area. Its simplicity made it easy to identify. There were no guards or reception desks at the entrance, just a small lobby with slogans about political education on the walls and a clock that finally revealed the exact time: nearly noon.

Seeing the time, Luo Cheng realized how early his family had eaten lunch. Likely, this was due to the common two-meal system of the time—people often skipped breakfast, so by ten or eleven in the morning, they were already quite hungry. In contrast, people in modern-day Yi’an typically didn’t eat lunch until after noon.

As Luo Cheng glanced around the lobby, a woman in her thirties approached him. She seemed to be one of the staff and spoke in a friendly tone:

“Comrade, who are you looking for? How can we help you?”

Luo Cheng replied honestly:

“Hello, comrade. I just returned home two days ago after completing my military service. My family is from this town, and I came to ask about job placements for retired soldiers. Is this the right place for that?”

His straightforward explanation caught the woman off guard.

Technically, the town committee was indeed responsible for job assignments, but its role was more about implementing directives from higher authorities. Direct inquiries about job placements—especially from a retired soldier—were uncommon.

“Do you have a Job Referral letter?” the woman asked after a moment of thought.

“Yes, I do,” Luo Cheng replied, “but I’m not sure where I’m supposed to report.”

Relieved to hear he had the necessary paperwork, the woman’s curiosity deepened. Why would someone with a Job Referral letter not know where to go?

“Comrade, please come in and take a seat while I review your Job Referral letter,” she said, leading him into an office.

The town committee’s responsibilities were extensive—workforce assignments were just one aspect. They handled everything from community coordination to miscellaneous administrative tasks. In a rural town, state-owned enterprises were scarce, and most official job placements bypassed the committee altogether, heading directly to the relevant agencies. Luo Cheng’s situation was highly unusual.

Once seated, the staff member unfolded his Referral letter. It wasn’t a traditional letter but a detailed form resembling a résumé. It included Luo Cheng’s name, age, education, skills, and military specialization.

As she scanned the document, her surprise grew.

Luo Cheng had a high school education—a rarity in this era. With such qualifications, his employment prospects should have been straightforward. Typically, the government prioritized high school graduates for job assignments.

As she read further, her astonishment deepened. Luo Cheng’s listed skills included driving and vehicle repair. In urban areas, drivers and mechanics earned at least 50 yuan per month, compared to the township clerks’ 30-something-yuan salaries, which were already the envy of many.

But Luo Cheng’s qualifications weren’t just impressive on the surface. His high school education qualified him for training as a reserve cadre, meaning his skills in transport or mechanics could lead to leadership roles in related sectors. In this era, literacy, technical expertise, and military experience were all highly prized. Luo Cheng had all three.

And yet, the most striking part of the Referral letter lay at the bottom.

The letter bore the stamp of the JS Ministry—an unusual source for such documents. Normally, Job Referral letters for retired soldiers came from their respective units or regional offices. A letter from the JS Ministry implied a much higher level of attention.

Referral letters from this ministry were typically reserved for officers at or above the battalion level. Luo Cheng, an ordinary soldier, shouldn’t have received such a high-ranking endorsement.

The woman examined the letter closely. Its authenticity was clear—the official seals were genuine, and falsifying such a document was unthinkable. Verification would only require a single phone call, and penalties for forgery were severe.

The letter also included a recommendation from a certain Dai Tiande. The staff member didn’t recognize the name, but for a recommendation to be included in a Referral letter, was rare. Generally, written by influential individuals with significant authority.